


Insanity in the Middle

by TeamHPForever



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:42:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4846214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamHPForever/pseuds/TeamHPForever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a world-class eventing rider with a gold medal and several four-star wins to his credit, but he's never won at Rolex. Sherlock is an up-and-coming rider taking the sport by storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> If you're not familiar with eventing, it's a sport on horseback consisting of three phases: dressage, cross-country, and show jumping. I'll explain those a little more as they come up within the story. Four-star competitions are the highest level. There are only six such competitions: Rolex, Badminton, Burghley, Adelaide, Stars of Pau, and Luhmuhlen. Rolex is the only one in North America. 
> 
> Now, I have no experience in eventing and I've never actually been to Rolex (Someday!) so I'm probably taking a lot of creative license with this fic. I follow the sport and I did quite a bit of research in writing this, but there are many things I just can't know.

A massive stone sign rears up to their right, capped with blue and emblazoned with “Kentucky Horse Park” in gold. They’re here. Rolex.

“Welcome back,” Mike says, resting both hands on the wheel as he navigates the gravel drive. “It only took you three years.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” John reminds him gruffly. Every time Rolex had come around on the calendar, there’d been something holding him back. Harry’s descent into alcoholism. An abscess. Mary leaving.

“Sure.” Mike pulls the trailer up just outside the barns. The real competition won’t start for a few more days, but the grass is already milling with riders, grooms, and horses. “Go figure out where we need to go.”

John climbs out eagerly, stiff from the long van ride. At a glance he spots William and Colleen ambling about the barn area. John ends up following Tim back to where the Stable Manager has set up camp. He accepts his information packet and stall assignment with a smile of thanks.

Mike’s hanging around the back of the trailer when he returns. “We’re right on the outside,” John says. “I’ll show you.”

“Perfect.” John helps him lower the ramp and stands back as Mike ducks into the trailer. He unties Artie with an easy movement and backs him down.

John watches, anxiously checking over his mount for any sign of injury. He looks none the worse for wear from his trip across the pond. Artie’s head is up and his ears pricked forward as he takes in the sights. He looks every bit the Olympic hopeful that this weekend could bring.

“Relax, John,” Mike says, patting the gelding on the neck. “Artie may never have been to Rolex before but it’s not like this is his first rodeo.”

John shrugs. He’s had enough mishaps before Rolex to be at least a little superstitious. Looking for a distraction, he turns his attention to the other competitors. He’s seen—and competed against—most of them before. Karen waves at him as she walks by. John waves back, forcing a pleasant smile onto his face. He’s never been fond of this part, the getting settled in.

Michael leads a dark brown horse away from his trailer and into the barn. His groom follows close behind with a second horse.

“He’s going to be a force to be reckoned with, mark my words,” Mike says, following his gaze.

“Consider them marked.”

“Here.” Mike shoves Artie’s lead rope into his hands. “Get the boy settled. I’ll grab your stuff.”

John nods and clicks his tongue, leading his horse down the row. Most of the stalls are filled already. Artie walks easily into his assigned box, investigating the straw.

“I’m going for a walk,” John says, once everything is settled into its proper place. He more than trusts Mike to take care of things. “Check everything out.”

“You do that.” Mike grabs a pair of bucket to fill with water. “Go on, I’ve got this.”

“Thanks, Mike.” John gives him a grateful smile. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Literally my job,” Mike calls back through the stall bars.

John starts walking down the row. He stops to chat with people he recognizes and smiles at those he doesn’t.

A whirlwind of man bursts out of a stall, almost running into him. “Sor—” John starts but the guy hasn’t even noticed he’s standing there.

“Molly, I told you to put the new sheet on him,” he’s saying to the woman eying him through the stall door. “You know, the one I just bought.”

“We talked about this.” She looks absurdly patient, certainly more than John would probably be at this point. “It didn’t fit. Storm’s an 82 and you bought him an 80.”

The man deflates a little. “His name isn’t Storm.”

“He doesn’t care.” Molly clips the stall guard in place with more force than strictly necessary. “Go for a walk. You’re just upsetting him.”

The man grumbles and looks up to notice he has an audience. “My apologies.”

John is sure that the man looks familiar but he can’t quite place him. It’s hard for him to believe that he wouldn’t recognize a fellow Brit, especially at this level. “The stress gets to us all.” John offers his hand. “John Watson.”

The man hesitates a moment and then shakes. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John’s eyes widen. He should have known. He may never have met the man, but he’s certainly seen the articles praising him as an up-and-coming champion. “Your dressage rounds are almost legendary. Best of luck to you.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says slowly, like he’s not sure how to take the compliment. “I’d best not keep you from whatever you were doing.”

“Going for a walk.” John steps out of the way to let a groom and horse by. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here and it was a long drive. Would you like to join me?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply but a female voice from behind them shouts, “He’d love to!”

John laughs and steps over to the front of the stall. “I don’t believe we’ve met. John Watson.”

“Molly Hooper.” The girl smiles at him and then nods to Sherlock. “I’m his groom.”

“You must have a lot of patience,” John teases, glancing back over his shoulder to where Sherlock is standing with a confused expression.

Molly laughs. “You have no idea.”

The dark gray horse she’s busy grooming pushes his head over the stall guard and bumps John’s chest with his nose. “Who’s this?”

“Consulting Detective,” Molly replies, laughing and reaching out to back him into the stall. “He’s usually quite shy. He must like you.”

“Would it be all right if I take Sherlock out of your hair for a bit?”

Molly looks like she might fall over with relief at the idea. “Be my guest.”

“What do you say, Sherlock?”

The man shrugs and offers an impassive, “That sounds all right.”

“Good. Let’s go.” They wait for another horse to pass and then continue out the other side of the row. Rich green grass stretches out in front of them to a line of hedge. Beyond that is a glimpse of the cross-country course. On the other side are the white boundaries of various practice arenas.

“Is this your first four-star?” John asks. “I don’t recall seeing you at Adelaide last year.”

“It is.” Sherlock’s head swivels like he’s trying to take in everything at once.

“Enjoy it,” John advises. “There’s nothing quite so terrifying or exhilarating.”

“No, there isn’t.” Sherlock fixes his gaze on him, a strange winkle in his forehead. “I wasn’t supposed to arrive until Wednesday morning.”

John nods with understanding. “Mike offered to let me get a later flight but I wanted to come with my horse.”

“This part is just so…” Sherlock waves his hand at the endless stretch of grass. There are a few horses being grazed, a couple more riding out, but for the most part everyone is just getting settled in. “Tedious.”

“It should be relaxing,” John agrees. “But all I want to do is get out on the course.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock lets out a smile. A rookie girl—John can’t quite place her name—spots them and waves. He waves back and she heads over, hesitating when she sees Sherlock standing there.

Her horse chooses that moment to throw a buck. If John didn’t know any better, he’d swear that her shoulders drop in relief for the distraction.

“I’m not exactly popular,” Sherlock says, looking back after her. “The only thing that matters to me is the ride.”

“Oh.” John isn’t quite sure how to answer that. They keep walking, in no particular direction because there isn’t really anywhere _to_ go. At the very least, the Trade Fair won’t be open until tomorrow.

“So how did you get started?” John asks. Sherlock sighs but he seems to latch onto the small talk anyway. Where Sherlock had turned to horses as a distraction from his incredibly dull boarding school, John had crossed his neighbor’s fence line and hopped on their pony at the age of nine.

They’re regaling each other with tales of their worst falls when John feels his phone buzz. “I’m sorry, I need to—” He pulls it out of his pocket and glances down. Mike.

_Artie would like to go for a hack. I thought you might like the chance to do something useful._

John’s fingers fly over his phone as he types back, _Be there in a minute._

“I’ve got to go ride,” John says.

“Of course.” Sherlock him back to the barn and lurks outside when John ducks underneath the stall guard.

“This is Army Born,” John says, scratching the horse’s neck. “Or Artie as well call him.”

Sherlock steps up to the stall and offers his open palm to the curious horse. “Gelding, fifteen hands, thirteen or fourteen years old, definitely part Thoroughbred. Not pure, though, part Shetland as well.”

John’s smile is amused as he bends down to remove Artie’s boots. He opens his mouth to respond but Sherlock isn’t quite done.

“He’s loyal and eager to please. Settles down well in the dressage ring but has a lot of drive for cross-country. Lacking flexibility with age, probably has difficulty with the half-pass and shoulder-in movements. His small size helps him make sharp maneuvers but also gives him a disadvantage in making time.”

John’s mouth gapes open. “Have you two met?”

“Was I right?” Sherlock rocks on the balls of his feet, seeming almost agitated as he waits for confirmation.

“He is a gelding, fifteen hands exactly, and fourteen. Would run his heart out for me. The half-pass is his worst movement and I do have to be careful of time faults.”

“Spot on, then.” Sherlock grins.

“He’s not part Shetland. He’s half Connemara.”

“Connemara.” Sherlock hisses, like the breed personally insults him. “There’s always something.”

“John, have you seen the—oh, hello.” Mike appears outside the stall and pauses, staring at Sherlock. “John?”

John steps up behind the guard. “Mike, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

Mike’s eyebrows are at risk of disappearing into his hair. “Good to meet you. John, have you seen the polish?”

“Did you check with the spare stirrup leathers?”

“Oh right. Have a good ride, John. Best of luck this weekend, Sherlock.” Mike walks away again. John clips Artie into cross-ties and brings down the stall guard to make things easier.

“So how did you know all those things about Artie?” There’s only silence behind him. John turns around to find that Sherlock has disappeared. He shrugs and turns back to Artie. “I don’t suppose you told him?”

Artie snorts. John shakes his head and goes to fetch the well-worn saddle that he uses for practice.

Artie takes in the sights as they step away from the barn. John keeps a relaxed hold on the reins, just letting him check things out.

After a few minutes, John bumps him with his heels and they start forward. It’s a sunny afternoon, thick with the promise of summer but still cool enough not to be uncomfortable. A few wispy clouds scatter across the horizon. This, being in the saddle and looking out over the world, is the part John loves best.

Artie pricks his ears forward and prances into a high-stepping jog. John laughs and tugs him back into a walk. “None of that,” he says, patting the gelding on the neck. “It’s funny now but not so much when the judges are staring us both down.”

Once they’re well away from the barn area, John picks up the reins and urges Artie up into a trot. His mount may be small compared to most but his gait eats up the ground. John looks ahead, keeping them moving along the hedge but not really going anywhere in particular.

After what he figures is a couple of miles, John sits and slows back down a walk. Artie tosses his head, not down with the idea of slowing. He hasn’t even broken a sweat. Once they’ve turned around to head back, John nudges him up into a trot once more.

He’d love to stand up in the stirrups and urge the horse up for a brisk gallop but after such a long trip he’d rather take it slow. Tomorrow, they’ll go for a proper ride.

John hands over the reins to Mike once they get back to the barn.

“There’s Chinese in the camper,” Mike tells him. “Go eat.”

“Thanks.” John starts to head that way and then turns around. He finds Molly sitting on the ground outside of Storm’s stall and Sherlock inside, wrapping his stallion’s legs.

“He likes to have something to do,” Molly says, squinting up at John. “Says it relaxes him.”

“You’ve got questions,” Sherlock says, ignoring the comment.

“Ah.” Molly’s smile is understanding. “Did he read your horse like a book?”

John isn’t quite sure whether to laugh or grimace. “You too?”

Molly laughs. “One glance at my mare and he knew that she has a bit of arthritis in her neck, a western jog to die for, often bucks at the canter, recently had a foal, and knows how to do flying lead changes even though I’d never asked.”

“So how did you do it?” John asks, wrapping his hands around the stall bars.

“Obvious,” Sherlock replies, finishing up one leg and moving to another.

“He’s not the horse whisperer, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Molly offers with a sympathetic smile. “He can just tell.”

“Most riders see but they do not observe,” Sherlock says, like that explains everything.

“Maybe we like to feel a horse under saddle and figure it out for ourselves,” John says. “I actually came down here to see if you had dinner plans.”

Sherlock finishes off the last wrap and straightens up. “I don’t eat during a competition. It only slows me down.”

John’s stomach clenches at the thought. “That can’t be safe.”

“I am more than capable of taking care of myself. Molly, stop shaking your head.” Molly chuckles and pulls out a horse magazine.

“I’ve got Chinese. Come on, Mike always gets more than enough for three.” John isn’t sure why he’s offering, isn’t even entirely sure why he’s standing here, but he knows that no rider should go without food. “Molly, you can join us if you like.”

“Thanks.” She offers a genuine smile. “But I have dinner plans.”

Sherlock ducks under the stall guard. “Fine. Okay. Molly—”

“I’ve been your groom for as long as you’ve needed one,” Molly says, turning her attention back to the magazine. “I know what Storm needs.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, shakes his head, and turns to John. “Lead the way.”

The camper is big enough for the both of them, clean but for the dust ground into the floor that never seems to come out. John moves his tall boots out of the way and motions for Sherlock to sit down while he gets the cartons out of the fridge. Mike has really out-done himself with the choices this time.

“Take whatever you want,” John says, bringing a couple plates out of the cabinet. Sherlock nods and, despite his assertion that he doesn’t eat during a competition, immediately digs in. John smirks.

The silence between them as they eat is companionable. John can’t help himself from checking Sherlock out when he’s not quite looking. His dark brown hair is long and curly, inviting the inevitable helmet hair. He eats with a distracted air, his eyes miles away. John has to admit that he has a lot of friends on the circuit but none of them are quite like Sherlock.

John bites his bottom lip and forces his attention back to the food. This is ridiculous.

When they’re done eating, John stows away the leftovers and they head back to the barns. Mike is nowhere to be seen, probably away polishing tack, and the idea of just hanging out makes John’s skin itch. He grabs Artie’s lead and brings him out.

“You can bring Detective, if he doesn’t mind other horses,” John says before Sherlock can disappear again. “I’m just going for a walk.”

Sherlock heads down the row without answering and a few minutes later the two of them are walking out over the lawn. Artie drops his head to crop grass but Detective stays alert, not tense but definitely primed to move if necessary.

“Why eventing?” John asks as they move away from the barns and onto a quieter bit of lawn.

“Too tall to be a steeplechase jockey,” Sherlock replies, looking surprised when John laughs.

“There’s always show jumping,” John points out. “You know what they say about this: _red on right, white on left, insanity in the middle_.”

“You can say I’ve never backed down from a challenge.” Sherlock catches his eye, gaze oddly intense. “Why did you?”

“It seems like the natural evolution from hunter paces.” John pats Artie on the shoulder and pulls his head up so they can move on.

From there, they talk about the different competitions they’ve been a part of. John shares what little knowledge he remembers from his previous Rolex tries. Gradually both Sherlock and Detective settle down, the man becoming absorbed in the conversation and the horse in cropping grass.

“We should get these two back,” John says, when darkness starts to set in.

“Right” Sherlock glances up at the sky. They split up when they reach their row. Mike appears while John is settling Artie back down into his stall.

“You’ve had a long trip,” Mike says. “Go get yourself put up in the hotel.”

John glances down to look for Sherlock but the man is nowhere to be seen. “I’ll be here at four sharp.”

“You’ll be here at six and not a minute earlier,” Mike replies. “Get rest while you can.”

“Fine.” John scowls for a moment. “Six.” He goes out to the lot and fires up their pick-up, pulling back out the long drive. As he navigates the streets of Lexington to his hotel, he lets his mind wander back to Sherlock.

_The only thing that matters to me is the ride._

_Connemara. There’s always something._

_Most riders see but they do not observe._

_You can say I’ve never backed down from a challenge._

John puts the man out of his mind as he grabs his bag and heads to check-in. Once he’s in his room, he pulls out the packet of information and starts to sort through it. Regulation reminders, course maps, pages upon pages of instructions. He skims through it all even though—with the exception of the maps—he knows most of it by heart.

Three years since his last Rolex. His shoulder throbs with the reminder and he massages at the joint without really thinking about it.

“Artie won’t let you down,” he tells himself and tucks the packet underneath the clock on the end table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some trivia for this chapter: 
> 
> "Red on right, white on left, insanity in the middle" is an eventing saying, though I'm not quite sure where it comes from. It refers to the cross-country regulation where each fence is jumped with the red flag on the right and white on the left. 
> 
> John's horse, Artie, is inspired by Theodore O'Connor, a 14.2-hand Thoroughbred/Shetland/Arabian cross with amazing heart. Detective isn't based off anyone in particular. Molly's mare is based off my own Lady (may she rest in peace). She had a jog from heaven, a canter from hell, and once threw me off because I asked for a lead change and she made it flying. 
> 
> William (Fox-Pitt), Colleen (Rutledge) and Tim (Bourke) are all real riders that competed at Rolex this year. Karen (O'Connor) has been retired from competition for a few years. Michael (Jung), the rider that Mike points out, won Rolex this year. His winning mount was Rocana, the horse he's leading. Sam, the one his groom is handling, finished third at Rolex and first at Burghley.


	2. Tuesday

John squints at his clock, trying to decipher the glowing red numbers. 4:23. He rolls over and tries to force himself back to sleep but there’s no doing it. He sighs and rolls out of bed.

He steps into a hot shower, soothing the stiffness of his muscles, and then turns the water to cool to wake himself up. The shower only manages to burn fifteen minutes but John gets dressed anyway. He’s not going to help anything just waiting around here.

He tells Mike as much when he arrives at the barn before five.

“Then do something useful,” Mike says, shoving the pitchfork into his hands.

Mucking stalls is hard but familiar work. The smell of hay and the sound of Artie’s snuffling surround him. A horse down the row kicks at his stall wall. It’s more relaxing than a hotel room ever could be.

Once the morning chores are done, John grabs breakfast in the camper before returning to take Artie for a ride. He finds a quiet stretch of lawn, softly lit in the early morning light, and works on trot circles and transitions. Artie settles eagerly into the work, pulling towards the cross-country course every time it passes within sight but otherwise listening well.

John straightens him out and urges the gelding up into a gallop. He stands in the stirrups, feeling the wind in his face and listening to the steady rhythm of hoof beats below.

Artie’s balled up with power from long days at the airport, in the trailer, in the stall. John shakes the reins and his strides lengthen, sweeping across the ground.

When the main arena rears up in front of them, John sits back, tugging until Artie slows into a trot. He shakes his head, enjoying the freedom of a good gallop too much, but listens.

John can feel the anticipation racing through his veins. He knows that he should probably head to one of the schooling arenas and get some work in but he heads for the dirt oval instead. Artie moves easily back into a gallop once they step on, his strides eating up the dirt like his racing ancestors once did.

John alternates galloping and trotting the miles until sweat starts to rise on Artie’s neck. He leaves the track, waving at a rider stepping on, and heads back to the barn. Artie has recovered and is prancing for more by the time he dismounts.

John rubs him down while Mike doles out the horse’s second breakfast.

“Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?” Mike asks.

“Might check out the Trade Fair. And I want to take Artie to school dressage sometime in the afternoon.” John claps his hands together and steps out of the stall, leaving Artie to eat in peace.

“No Sherlock today?” There’s a strange tone in Mike’s voice. “The two of you seemed thick as thieves yesterday.”

“I’m sure he’s busy with his own mount,” John points out.

“Right. Just like you are.” Mike leans over the tack trunk and starts untangling bits of leather.

“Exactly,” John replies, scowling as he realizes the sarcasm a second too late. “What are you saying?”

Mike sighs and drops the mess of leather back into the box as he straightens up. “You have friends on the circuit but I haven’t seen you quite like this. Not in a long time.”

John hears the unspoken, _Not since Mary. “_ I only met him yesterday.”

“You only met Mary two years ago at Plantation.” Mike glances over John’s shoulder. “As for Sherlock, he’s coming this way.”

John tries not to give himself whiplash as his head jerks to look the other way down the row. Sure enough, Sherlock is walking towards them, looking the picture of a confident rider in breeches, spotless tall boots, and a green polo.

“John.” Sherlock isn’t smiling but somehow he still manages to look eager. “I’m taking Detective out to school jumps. Will you join me?”

“Sorry.” Artie’s head pops out of the stall in response to _jumps._ “We just got back from a good gallop.”

Sherlock deflates a little. “Perhaps later then.”

He turns to go but John’s voice stops him. “I’m going to the Trade Fair around noon.” Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the thought of wandering around the tables of merchandise. “I know, but at least it’ll get us off our arses.”

“And out of the hair of your grooms,” Mike adds, leaning back over the tack trunk.

“Fine.” Sherlock turns on his heel and heads back down the row. Mike makes a strange humming noise in his throat. John scowls and walks away. Some of the riders are just hanging around the back of the barns so he goes to join them. At the very least he can catch up while passing the time.

Sherlock finds John back at his own stall, attentively polishing the dust from his tall boots. “Ready to go?” Sherlock asks.

“Oh God, yes.” John sets his boots safely aside and gets to his feet.

The Trade Fair provides for a nice distraction but not for long. John has never been one for shopping and Sherlock seems to be more interested in watching the people around them than the merchandise.

The two of them are debating over what they miss most about London on the way back to the barns when John hears a horse snorting. He looks across the lawn to a younger rider trying to calm down a large warmblood. The horse rears up and she keeps her feet moving out of the way.

John can see a spark of frustration in the girl’s eyes as the horse comes down and plants his feet in the dirt. “Uh oh.”

Sherlock turns just in time to see her take the whip from her boot and give the horse a solid whack on the rump. He leaps forward and paws at the ground but doesn’t make another move to rear.

Before John can move, Sherlock is halfway across the lawn. He storms down on the girl, seeming to grow a solid six inches as he halts in front of her. She drops the whip and cowers in front of him. John briefly wonders if he’s about to witness a murder.

Sherlock opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Instead, he snatches the reins from her hands and leads the horse a couple yards away.

As Sherlock turns toward the gelding, his whole demeanor melts. His face softens, his hands are gentle on the reins, and while he maintains the upright confidence he doesn’t quite look like he’s going to pound something into the ground. John stays rooted where he is, unable to quite believe he’s looking at the same man.

Sherlock guides the horse in circles, waiting until he drops his head and relaxes before looking back at the girl. “Never act out of frustration,” he tells her. “Horses do not understand.”

“I’m sorry.” A tear runs down her cheek. “I’ve never done that before.”

“Then never do it again.” Sherlock hands the reins back over to her and heads back.

John stares at him as the softness seeps back away to be replaced by his usual impenetrable mask. “That was amazing.”

“Anyone here would do the same to protect a horse,” Sherlock says.

John doesn’t think that’s quite true—at least outside the riders and grooms—but that hadn’t been quite what he meant regardless. He shakes his head and lets the matter go. “You said you have a flat in London?”

Once they’re back at the barn, John tacks up Artie for another schooling session. He seems eager to go even after their earlier workout.

“Would you mind if I watch?” Sherlock asks as John’s swinging into the saddle. “Molly went to check out the rest of the Park.”

“All right.” John keeps Artie to a walk despite his tugging at the bit so Sherlock can keep up. The nearest schooling ring turns out to be empty so John takes it over eagerly. Sherlock leans against the fence, looking strangely engaged despite being their competitor.

John shakes his head and focuses his attention on riding. He starts out easy—transitions, circles, and changes in direction—just making sure Artie is paying attention. From there he works his way through the various movements, although all out of order because he doesn’t quite have the test memorized yet.

“Would you like me to call the test?” Sherlock asks as he passes by at a walk.

John raises an eyebrow at him. “You know it all?”

“Of course.” Sherlock’s voice makes him feel a bit guilty for not having started studying it yet.

“Better not.” John reaches down to pat Artie’s neck and gathers up the reins. “Artie’s always been a quick study when it comes to dressage tests.”

John goes through canter serpentines again, delighting in how smooth Artie’s turns are even on the off-lead. “What do you think?” John asks, coming to a halt at the fence.

“You don’t quite ride to the markers off circles,” Sherlock says, his voice flat. “And you should try flexing his neck more as part of your warm-up. I think it would help him bend into the shoulder-in.”

John nods and nudges Artie on. He tries the various size circles again, focusing on the markers as he closes them off. When he feels comfortable with that, he asks Artie for the shoulder-in and immediately sees what Sherlock was getting at. He looks back at the fence to tell him so, but his fellow rider has disappeared.

“Maybe I should hire him as my coach,” John mutters and releases the reins to urge Artie to relax into a free walk.

A part of him wonders if maybe Sherlock has gotten bored of him and disappeared. It’s obvious that’s not the case when he shows up five minutes later with Detective.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” John teases.

Sherlock urges Detective inside the white borders of the dressage ring. “This is okay?”

“Sure.” John pushes Artie up into a collected trot. “Just call out your circles and serpentines.”

Once Detective is warmed up and focused, John takes Artie out of the dressage ring and along the outside fence instead, giving him a nice walk break. Artie is relaxed and easy-going and it isn’t long before John’s attention wanders to the horse and rider team practicing just to their inside.

Sherlock is a vision to watch, even just schooling. His position is technically perfect—heels dropped, motionless lower leg, quiet hands, straight upper body—and his expression focused and intense. The strength of his partnership with Detective is obvious, the horse flicking an ear back as he reacts to Sherlock’s cues. The two of them look like they should be in the ring right now, Sherlock decked out in a top hat and tails, Detective groomed to the nines.

Sherlock brings Detective down a walk and releases the reins. He glances over to John and raises an eyebrow. “You’ve stopped.”

John glances down to realize that Artie is no longer moving, standing quietly with his ears pricked at another horse trotting by on the lawn. He gathers up the reins and urges Artie on. “I got caught up in watching you.”

“Oh.” Sherlock looks taken aback and it hits John that he has _no idea_ how beautiful he is to watch. Nor is he quite sure how to go about telling him.

So John doesn’t. He turns his attention back to his own mount, working on transitions and pretending to ignore Sherlock and Detective.

John breaks first, heading out of the schooling arena. Sherlock, despite having only about half the practice time, follows next to him.

They split up when they reach the barns and John heads down to his own stall to settle Artie back in. “How’d it go?” Mike asks, getting up to help.

“He did well.” John swings down from the saddle. They chat about the schooling session while untacking and grooming. When they done, John steps out of the stall and pauses. He _should_ go back to the hotel to get some rest and study the dressage test. Tomorrow, all the fun will start.

He’s just turning to walk toward the parking lot when he hears a voice behind him. “John!”

It’s Sherlock, sweeping up the row. “Molly informed me that I should eat something,” he says. “Would you like to join me?”

“I was actually thinking about ordering pizza to my hotel tonight,” John replies, his hotel room seeming increasingly more appealing. Silence swells for a few seconds. “You could join me?”

Sherlock nods. “Pizza is fine.”

It turns out that they’re both staying at the same hotel and, after some deliberation, they decide to drive separately. John orders the pizza as he’s climbing into his car and swings by to pick it up. Sherlock’s already waiting outside his door when he arrives.

“I could have called down to your room,” John points out, handing the pizza over so he can dig around in his pockets for the key.

“I was here,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly.

John pushes the door open and moves aside to let Sherlock in. The room is clearly the temporary home for an eventing rider—show clothes hanging in the closet, top hat on the desk. John moves the latter aside to make room for the pizza box.

John turns the TV on and flips through the channels, finally settling on Casino Royale. Sherlock glances at the TV, his expression unvarying. “What’s this?”

John drops the remote and is glad he hasn’t gotten any pizza yet. “It’s _Casino Royale._ James Bond.”

“Okay.” Sherlock pulls the chair away from the desk and settles down. John blinks hard and goes to fetch some pizza, trying to decide what kind of person would never have heard of James Bond.

The movie plays in the background while they eat. Sherlock watches intently, offering a snort at some of the more ridiculous points. John sets the plate on the bed next to him and reads over the dressage test.

“You’ve competed in every four-star except Rolex over the past few years,” Sherlock says out of nowhere, fixing his eyes on John rather than the TV.

John looks up slowly. “Yes, I have.”

“Your last Rolex ended early when you fell during cross-country.” Sherlock’s voice is still matter-of-fact, just like he’d been talking through Artie’s qualities.

John hears the unspoken question and his shoulder throbs with the reminder. “After that, coming to Rolex seemed like a curse.”

“Riders are nothing if not superstitious.” Sherlock nods at the old horse shoe that John has sitting on the desk.

John lets the silence stand for a few minutes before he realizes he’s completely zoned out in favor of his memories. “I had two horses then: Artie and Zoey. For Artie, it would have been old hat, I’d brought him to Rolex the past couple of years.”

“And for Zoey?” Sherlock prompts quietly, reaching across the bed for the remote to mute the television.

John sits up, pushing away the dressage test. “She was still young and had never been to a four-star. I was looking to make the World Equestrian Games and Artie would take me there. Zoey was just along to get her feet wet.”

“I didn’t see two horses of yours in the results,” Sherlock says slowly.

“No.” John frowns hard. “Artie went lame two weeks before. It turned out not to be serious but I could never ask him to be competition ready so soon. I thought it would be fine, I would take Zoey. Artie and I would have other events.

“Zoey did well in dressage and we were sitting fifth going into cross-country. I’d barely allowed myself to hope for a top twenty finish since, with Artie as my champion mount, the only real goal was a clean finish and a positive learning experience. Cross-country was never Zoey’s best event and it rained the night before. She fell at the Head of the Lake.” John lets out a sigh. He hasn’t had to talk about this for a long time. All of his friends were in eventing; they already knew because they were there.

Sherlock’s mouth tightens into an understanding line. “And after?”

“I dislocated my shoulder and tore my rotator cuff.” John rolls his shoulder as he remembers the burning pain and ensuing physical therapy. “As for Zoey, she was fine. I decided I wasn’t capable of balancing two mounts while in recovery, so I sold her to a friend looking for a top prospect.”

“You avoided Rolex out of fear of it happening again.” Sherlock’s voice is lacking in accusation but John can still feel himself getting defensive.

“I always planned to come back,” he snaps. “Shit happened.”

Sherlock’s eyes flash but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he gets up and puts his plate into the empty pizza box to throw the whole thing away.

John says, “The last few years don’t matter. I’m here now.”

“Admirable.” Sherlock’s tone is strangely tight and he flops back down into his chair. “But in this sport, you never let fear control you.”

“It wasn’t fear,” John snaps. “The year after, my sister—”

“Excuses then,” Sherlock replies, cutting him off. “Not much better.”

“I didn’t invite you here so that you could _judge_ me,” John replies, fixing the man with a harsh gaze. “If that’s what you’re here for, your room is right down the hall.”

Sherlock freezes and his eyes flicker with something uncertain. “I’m sorry. I just hate to see such potential wasted.” He stands up and sweeps from the room, leaving John with the strange feeling that he’d just responded rudely to what was meant to be a compliment.


	3. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arguably the most important part of any major eventing competition is the day before the events even start. This is the day of the first horse inspection, when a panel consisting of the veterinarians on staff and the ground jury observes each horse to determine whether they are fit to compete. Horses are either accepted by the panel, declined, or sent to the holding box. If sent to the box, the horse is examined by another veterinarian (the rider can also opt for an exam performed by their own vet) and then the rider decides whether to present for inspection a second time or withdraw from the competition.

John arrives back at the barns before dawn, anticipation starting to take root in his gut. Dressage will start tomorrow, kicking off the real beginning of the competition, but today the competitors get to walk the cross-country course and present their horses for the first inspection.

Before all of that, though, there’s one thing that he wants to do. He makes a quick stop at the camper to drop off his clothes for later and offers Artie a quick pat before continuing down the line. Sherlock is helping spread fresh bedding into Detective’s stall when John finds him.

“I’m sorry about last night,” John says, earning a quick glance from Sherlock and a questioning look between the two of them from Molly. “I did let excuses get in the way of competing the way I should have.”

Sherlock pauses in his work and straightens up. “I’m taking Detective to school jumps before the briefing. Join me?”

“Sure.” John’s smile is wry but he feels relieved that Sherlock isn’t going to interrogate him further. “I’ll meet you back here.” He’s barely away from the stall before he can hear Molly whispering questions behind him.

John goes down to Artie’s stall. His horse looks awake and alert this morning, pawing at the floor with a glint in his eye. He’s always been sensitive to the rise of tension in the air.

“He’s ready to go for inspection,” Mike says, measuring out supplements into the horse’s bucket. “Shouldn’t have any problems.”

“Only ever been sent to the box once.” John smiles and reaches out to scratch his horse’s forehead. “I just wish it was tomorrow.”

“It’ll be here before you know it.” Mike finishes the bucket, gives it a shake, and hangs it in Artie’s stall. The horse abandons John’s attention in favor of his breakfast.

John turns around and leans back against the stall. “I’m taking Artie to school with Detective again.”

“All right.” Mike’s eyes are curious but he doesn’t ask. “I’ll have plenty of time with him while you’re at the briefing and walking the course. I wouldn’t want him to look anything less than his best for the jog.”

John snorts. “What about me?”

“I’m not your groom.” Mike laughs and walks away without another word.

Right on time, John sees Sherlock leading Detective out of his stall fully tacked and hurries to catch up. Most people are schooling dressage or keeping things light as they prepare for inspection, so the jump rings are pretty well available.

John takes his time warming up in either direction, running through the gaits and halting in the middle to flex Artie’s neck to either side. Sherlock takes Detective over the warm-up fences, the horse practically curling in the air while his rider sits quietly on his back, guiding more than directing.

There are two lines set up—red-and-white striped triple verticals, and blue-and-white double vertical and oxer—along with a couple single fences. John nudges Artie up into a canter and calls out, “Blue.”

Sherlock glances back at the line and encourages his mount into a tight turn out of the way to a green vertical. Artie moves over the line easily, more function than style, and pricks his ears for more. John laughs and slows him down to a trot instead.

He mostly stays out along the fence for the schooling session, not wanting to overdo things. Despite the distraction of the jumps, Artie does well actually paying attention.

John feels optimistic about their chances as they step out of the ring with Sherlock and Detective. The lawn is starting to clear, riders heading in for the competitor briefing.

John reaches down to pat Artie on the neck as they weave their way in the direction of the barns. “We’ve got a bit before the briefing. Mike has sandwich stuff in the camper, since it’s going to be a while before we get a break.”

Sherlock focuses on Detective with more intensity than the currently quiet horse really warrants. “Molly said she was going out to grab something.”

“Okay.” John licks his lips and glances away while something squirms in his stomach.

Sherlock pulls his eyes away from his horse’s neck to look at John. “I’ll see you at the briefing.”

“Of course. I’ll see you then.” They break apart as they reach the barns. John hands Artie over to Mike before heading to the camper. He repeats the movements of the dressage pattern in his head as he builds a ham and turkey sandwich.

Tired of looking at the dusty walls, John steps back out into the sunshine and eats standing on the lawn. There are clouds on the horizon but they’re white and wispy. The long grass bends slightly beneath the breeze. A dog barks, the sound far away. “Hey, John,” David O’Connor says, waving as he walks by.

John swallows quickly. “Hey, David.”

By the time John finishes his sandwich, it’s time for the briefing. The riders settle down in chairs while the officials gather at the front of the room. Many of the novices look nervous, while those who have heard it all before just look bored. John waves at a few people and settles down in an available seat on the outside. A few minutes later, the empty seat next to him is occupied by a tall Brit.

The briefing is long and intensive, outlining procedures and rules for the next few days of competition. John represses a sigh of relief when the formalities are over and they’re led out to the cross-country course for the official opening. Anticipation hums in the air and chatter breaks out.

For now John keeps his look at the course cursory—they’ll have plenty of time to walk the course as many times as they choose before they ride out on it Saturday. He takes in the solid fences and the sweeping galloping lanes, pays attention as the officials point out their options for obstacles with more than one possible route. John only feels tension rising in his shoulders as they make their way around Head of the Lake.

Sherlock catches John’s eye from where he’s examining the log over which they’ll drop into the water. “Focus on how you’ll approach it,” he advises. “Forget about past mistakes.”

John nods but it’s easier said than done. He looks at the water and all he feels is the sickening drop as Zoey loses her footing and sends him crashing into the water.

John shakes his head. He’s been through countless water crossings since then, some even worse than this one. The course walk moves on and he forces his attention onto the next fence.

At long last they pass the last of the twenty-nine obstacles and walk down the lane to the finish. John looks out at the stretch of ropes marking off the course. They’re empty now but come competition day they’ll be packed with cheering fans.

“Interesting,” Sherlock says thoughtfully as the crowd comes out the break in the ropes and splits apart now that the walk is over.

“What do you think?” John asks, mind running back over the course.

“I am confident that Detective can handle it.” Sherlock turns to head back to the barns. “For the most part, it’s nothing that he hasn’t seen before.”

“What about the first fence of Mounds?”

Sherlock frowns at the thought. “That one he might have some trouble with.”

They end up outside Detective’s stall, standing out of the way talking about the various fences while Molly makes the horse presentable.

“I’m taking him out for a bath,” Molly says, leading Detective out of the stall with a bucket of grooming supplies hanging over her other arm.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Sherlock waves her off and Molly looks relieved. “John, what do you suppose the best approach is for the Hollow?”

It’s about two-thirty when John gets a text from Mike ordering him to come back to his stall immediately. “I guess that means it’s time for inspection,” John says, tucking his phone away. “Best of luck, Sherlock.”

“To you as well,” Sherlock calls after him.

Mike scowls at John through the bars of the stall as soon as he arrives. Artie is perfectly turned out, his coat shining and his mane braided. “Your horse is ready,” Mike says. “But I can see you’re not.”

“Shit,” John hisses. “I’ll be right back.”

He bolts for the camper. The garment bag he brought over just this morning hangs in the back. He strips out of his riding clothes and into a white button-up and light brown suit. It’s not his favorite outfit but it’ll do. His fingers fumble with the knot of his tie. He finishes off with a dark brown pair of shoes and hopes that Artie won’t take the lack of his more solid boots as an excuse to step on his foot.

John arrives back at Artie’s stall with plenty of time to spare. Mike has the horse outside the stall and is wiping him down with a cloth.

“There,” Mike says, finishing off with a flourish. “He’s as ready as I can make him.”

John’s mouth tightens into a thin line. Despite his earlier confidence, jogs are always a tense time. Any of them could be turned away from the competition in an instant. John takes the reins and heads out.

The jogging lane is a strip of dirt, bordered on both sides by small hedges and pink flowers. It’s also directly in sight of the cross-country course and the horses know it. John glances around, taking in the gathering of horse and rider pairs, horses groomed to their brightest and humans all wearing their best. A rookie girl toys with her heels and quietly bemoans not choosing to wear flats instead.

One by one, the horses are announced and the panel makes their decision. John focuses his attention on Artie but the horse is as calm as ever.

At long last, the two of them are called onto the lane. The blood rushes in John’s ears, blocking out the steady drone of commentary in the background. He smiles as he walks up to the panel and halts in front of them.

“Go ahead and jog,” a kindly woman says, jotting something onto her clipboard.

John breaks into a run, Artie moving easily beside him, ears pricked forward at the crowd gathered at the end of the lane. Cameras flash but the horse just arches his neck and puts an extra spring in his step. John laughs as he tugs him to a walk and brings him around the turn.

They’ve almost made it. John jogs down the rest of the lane and slows as they come out the other side.

“ _Army Born accepted_ ,” the announcer calls and the crowd breaks into applause. John grins and pats his horse’s neck. The real competition is still to come but this means they’ll have a chance to make it there.

John weaves his way through the riders still waiting to be inspected on his way to the barns.

“Now the real work begins,” Mike says, taking the reins from him.

John nods, unable to suppress the smile on his face. “I’m going to watch the rest of the jogs. I’ll be back to school once things quiet down.”

“Of course.” Mike leads Artie into the stall. The horse tosses his head like he’s not convinced that was all he was required to do. “I’ll have my fingers crossed for Sherlock.”

John nods and heads back out. He spots Molly standing along the fence, white-faced and tense. “I hate this part,” she admits.

“I know.” John takes off his jacket and hangs it over his arm. “I wish it wasn’t necessary.”

They glance down to where William is getting ready to enter the lane. His mount tosses his head, rearing up on his hind legs. “I think he agrees with you.”

“Oh Moonie,” Molly murmurs and they lapse into silence as William steps in to jog. Moonie stands quietly for inspection and trots easily until they reach the end of the lane. There, he pricks his ears at the cross-country course just next to them and half-rears. William brings him down and the horse tosses his head as they turn the corner. His antics continue as they make their way back, breaking into a canter like he intends to continue straight out onto the course, but he calms down to exit.

“ _Bay My Hero accepted and ready_.”

“Sherlock is next,” Molly says and, sure enough, the tall man steps out onto the lane with his even taller horse. Detective looks the picture of a Rolex veteran, calm and confident with his ears pricked at the crowds. He tosses his head in front of the panel but focuses once they’re moving.

“ _Consulting Detective to the holding box_.”

John’s breath freezes in his chest. Molly’s knuckles turn white as she grips the fence in front of them. “I didn’t see anything off, did you?” John asks.

Molly shakes her head. “He looked perfect.”

John barely notices the others jogging in front of them as he waits. The lack of announcement about Sherlock’s withdrawal is the only good sign and finally he returns with Detective to jog again. The stallion lifts up his legs in a prance as they enter the ring, nipping at Sherlock’s coat.

They repeat the jog again and the crowd holds their breath as they exit the lane. John’s heart thumps against his ribs. “ _Consulting Detective accepted_.”

Molly’s breath rushes out in a sharp sigh. “Thank heavens.” They both bolt for the barns, making it there just before Sherlock.

“What happened?” John asks as Molly takes the horse’s reins to settle him back down.

“A couple of the ground jury thought there was something off in his stride,” Sherlock says, his voice tight. “The others agreed that he was just affected by the crowds.”

“At least we both made it.” John claps him on the shoulder.

Sherlock pulls away from his touch and turns around. “I’m going to wait for order of go to be announced.”

John watches him walk away and sighs. Behind him, Molly says gently, “Detective hasn’t had a close call like that in a long time. And never at a competition this important.”

“I understand.” John nods as he turns around.

“Once he has a chance to calm down, he’ll be fine.” Molly starts getting Detective settled back down.

“You know him better than I do.” John smiles at her through the bars.

Molly’s smile slips into a frown and she stares at Detective’s bridle in her hands. “I’m not sure that’s true.”

“Come on.” John’s eyebrows raise. “You’re his groom. You travel with him. You’ve known him for how long?”

“Five years now.” She reaches out of the stall to exchange the bridle for a halter. “His groom for two. Sherlock is a hard man to get to know.”

John thinks over the past couple of days, particularly to when he calmed down the horse and scolded the girl the day before. The way his whole self seemed to change right before his eyes. Was that all Sherlock was? A series of acts put on for the benefit of the rest of the world? “Yeah.” John stares off down the stretch of lawn. “I see what you mean.”

I’ve never seen him spend as much time with another rider as he does with you,” Molly says, smiling again. “It’s nice.”

John isn’t sure how to respond to that. “I think I’ll go see if they have our order announced yet.”

“Okay.” Molly’s grinning now. “Bye, John.”

Their order has been posted. John’s dressage test is Thursday morning. He frowns for a second at his name. He’s never been fond of having a day off in the middle of the competition but that’s the luck of the draw.

Sherlock is nowhere to be seen so John runs down the list for his name as well. Friday afternoon. They wouldn’t have a day before cross-country but it came with the added disadvantage of a larger crowd. Sherlock did seem like the type to to prefer a quieter setting.

John goes back to the barn and catches Mike sitting guard outside the stall. “Dressage. Tomorrow morning,” John says.

“I’ll give your tack a good polish later this evening,” Mike replies. “You should take Artie out for a bit and get some rest.”

“I’m fine. Can you tack him up? I’m just going to run to change.” John glances down at his suit, already starting to attract dust and horse hair.

“Of course.” Mike’s already pulling out the saddle. John heads to the camper and slips into his regular clothes. By the time he makes it back to the barn, Artie is all tacked up and the only thing left for him to do is strap on a helmet.

“Have a good ride,” Mike says as John swings into the saddle.

John tips his helmet and gathers up the reins. Artie breaks into a jog as they head away from the barn, still excited by the earlier festivities.

The schooling areas are relatively empty, many of the competitors off to eat or still returning from checking the order of go. John glances between a jumping ring and a dressage ring but decides on neither. Instead, he takes his time warming up on the lawn before stepping onto the track for a gallop. Artie moves out easily, not stretching out into his full charge but maintaining a steady rolling stride.

John lets his horse stretch his legs and take the edge off without it being too much. With the height of fitness Artie is in, he can’t quite imagine that being possible but in this stage it wouldn’t do to ask too much and have nothing left at crunch time.

When they’re done, he lets Artie have a long cool-out before he returns to the barn. By then the lawn and arenas are packed with horses and riders. Those that have tests tomorrow are schooling dressage or just keeping their horses sharp like John, while those that have an extra day are taking advantage of the increased preparation time.

John hands off Artie’s reins to Mike just in time to see another groom barreling down the aisle towards him. “Molly. What’s going on?”

She stops in front of him with a sharp sigh. “Sherlock is in mood. He’s not letting me do anything. Can you go talk to him?”

John raises his eyebrow, wondering what he could do for the man that she couldn’t, and then remembers what she said earlier about him spending more time with Sherlock than any other rider. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” She smiles with relief and seems much more relaxed as she continues on out of the barn area.

John shakes his head as he makes his way down the row. Sherlock is in Detective’s stall, brushing nonexistent dust off the horse’s coat. His hand is clenched so tightly around the brush that his knuckles are white but even so his strokes are no less gentle than normal.

“Sherlock,” John says, reaching for the stall guard.

The man doesn’t pause in his brushing, doesn’t even glance over. “I just want to make sure everything is perfect. Everything needs to be perfect.”

“Detective is fine,” John says and the stallion bobs his head seemingly in agreement. “Horses get sent to the box. It’s scary but it happens.”

“Not to me.” Sherlock looks over at him but his eyes dart away again as he switches sides.

“Molly has been your groom for a long time, you know that you can trust her to do a good job,” John reminds him.

Sherlock’s head drops but he doesn’t say anything. John ducks underneath the stall guard and holds out his hands for Detective to investigate as he steps around the horse. He says, “I know it’s not her fault.”

“It’s not anyone’s fault.” John steps closer, remembering the last time he’d been sent to the holding box, that fear of the competition being over before it even began, that all the time and money and effort that went into preparation had been for nothing. “Look at me.”

Sherlock does, his gray eyes stormy. Emotions wrap themselves around John’s lungs and squeeze until he feels like he can’t breathe. The brush falls from Sherlock’s hand, landing in the bedding with a soft thump. Detective, quickly losing interest in the two of them, goes to investigate the remains of his hay net.

“I was scared,” Sherlock says, stumbling over the words like he’s never said them before.

Maybe he hasn’t.

John covers the two steps between them and wraps Sherlock into a hug. The man freezes for a second and then lifts his arms around John’s waist. “Let’s go back to the hotel,” John suggests. “We’ll order Thai and you can watch me recite the dressage test.”

Sherlock’s face is tight as he backs out of the hug. “I knew you were lying when you said you’d already memorized it.”

John laughs and ducks out of the stall. Molly’s hovering in the aisle and he gives her a thumbs-up while Sherlock’s back is turned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moonie (Bay My Hero) is William Fox-Pitt's mount. His antics are directly pulled from his first inspection at this year's Rolex.


	4. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dressage is a competition in which horses and riders must complete a set pattern within an enclosed arena. They are judged on a scale of 1-10 for each movement and for general impressions. The scores are then tallied, given as a percentage, and then the number of penalties are calculated based on points lost.

John groans as his alarm goes off near his ear. Four a.m. He turns it off and shoves his face into his pillow for a moment.

There’s a strange noise followed by a rustle on the floor. John reaches for the light before he remembers that it’s Sherlock. The two of them had been up later than they should have and, in the end, John had suggested he sleep over on the floor even though his room was just down the hall.

Sherlock’s nestled into a cocoon of extra blankets, his face covered by his tousled hair. John briefly wishes that he’d thought to offer half the bed. It’s an innocent fancy until an image pops into his head of the two of them tangled together beneath the sheets. John shakes his head, pushing the thoughts beside. Dressage is what he needs to worry about now.

Sherlock mumbles something nonsensical and rolls over. He looks peaceful and John regrets that he’s going to have to disturb that in a moment. In the meantime, he crawls out of bed as quietly as possible and makes his way to the bathroom. By the time John’s returned from the shower, Sherlock is awake and scrolling through his phone.

“I need to get to the barns to be sure Artie is ready to go,” John says, digging through his suitcase for a comb. “You can stay here if you like.”

Sherlock shoves his phone into his pocket and gets to his feet. “I’ll be at your car in ten minutes.”

“Okay,” John says but the man is already on his way out.

John double- and triple-checks to make sure all of his dressage attire is gathered up and ready. It wouldn’t do him any good to forget his top hat the morning of his test. He makes it down to the car just a minute after Sherlock.

The streets are empty as they make their way back to Kentucky Horse Park, being too early in the morning for anyone to be out. “What do you have planned for your day off?” John asks.

“Schooling. Make sure Detective doesn’t pick up too much on the tension.” Sherlock’s fingers are flying over his phone again but he doesn’t offer an explanation. “I thought I would come to watch your test.”

“Oh.” John swallows. He hasn’t had a personal audience since Mary, especially after he and Harry began fighting. “Okay.”

“Is that a problem?” Sherlock tucks his phone away and fixes his gaze on John.

“It’s fine.” He turns onto the drive up to the barns. “It’s good to watch other people’s tests.”

Sherlock turns to look out the window. “I don’t plan to watch tests. Just one.”

They fall into silence as John parks the car and the two of them step out. A kindly woman at the gate checks their wristbands and wishes them both the best of luck. John goes straight to Artie’s stall. Mike is already awake, organizing tack and checking to make sure it’s all in order. Artie is standing at the back of the stall, his head down as he continues to doze.

The next few hours are a whirlwind of activity—feeding, bathing, grooming, polishing tack. John occupies himself with doing as much as he can, while Artie looks like a confident veteran in comparison.

“I’m going at 9:54,” John tells Mike when it’s barely eight.

“I’ve seen the order of go,” Mike reminds him. “Why don’t you go relax for a few minutes?”

“I’m fine,” John insists, digging through the trunk for the hoof polish only to realize that it’s already sitting at his feet. Maybe not so much after all.

John is meticulously removing specks of dust from his tall boots when Sherlock appears. “I'm under orders to make sure that you get breakfast.”

“Under orders?” John’s forehead wrinkles and he glances into the stall to where Mike is hiding unsuccessfully behind Artie’s back. “How does Mike even have your number?”

Sherlock shifts slightly. “It was Molly, actually. She passed the message along.”

“Just go, John,” Mike says, still hiding. “You need to eat and get changed.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

Mike peeks around Artie’s neck and gives him a firm look. “I'm pretty sure it's an automatic elimination if you pass out and fall off.”

“I wouldn't fall off.” John’s smile is tight as he turns to Sherlock. They end up at the other man’s trailer, where there’s a surprisingly large selection of breakfast foods considering Sherlock’s assertion that he doesn’t eat during competitions. Molly must be behind the stocking.

John settles on half of an everything bagel and an apple.

“Are you prepared?” Sherlock asks, picking at a scone from where he’s sitting on a tack trunk.

“As I’ll ever be. I’m glad to be getting it out of the way.” John sighs, nerves beginning to take root in his stomach again. “I thought I was meant to be relaxing.”

“To be honest, I’m not very good at distracting,” Sherlock says.

John bites his tongue to keep himself from saying that he doesn’t think that’s true at all. His eyes slip down to Sherlock’s lips.

“I prefer to plan,” Sherlock goes on, oblivious to the internal battle going on across from him. “Tell me about your first four-star.”

John thinks back and cringes. “Maybe not the best memory to use to relax. It was Badminton and I got rung out of the dressage ring.”

Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change. “Your first _completed_ four-star then.”

“Burghley. I finished twenty-ninth but learned so much I didn’t care.” That was a memory John could smile about. His dressage test hadn’t been the best but he’d made it clear through cross-country, his confidence building with each completed obstacle, and had only dropped one rail in show jumping.

John loses himself in tales of his various triumphs and it’s only when he checks his phone to find that it’s time for him to get changed that he realizes he hasn’t worried over the test once.

“Thanks,” he tells Sherlock as he gets to his feet.

“For what?” Sherlock's expression is almost confused but the smirk on his face suggests otherwise.

The nerves kick back in as John makes his way alone to his own trailer. His dressage attire waits, free from wrinkles and overly stuffy. He already finds himself longing for the simplicity of cross-country.

He lays everything out and dresses slowly, making sure he’s not leaving anything out. The top hat he brings with him. He’ll warm up in a helmet and switch out before he goes into the ring. He knows that the rules have changed, that it’s perfectly acceptable and encouraged to wear a helmet during a test, but he can’t bring himself to break the habit.

John steps out of the trailer and makes his way to the barns. People wish him luck as he passes and he tries to smile as he thanks them. 

“Sherlock told me you were on your way,” Mike says, standing outside the stall with Artie fully tacked. 

“Thanks.” John trades his top hat for his horse and mounts up. He takes his time stretching out Artie’s neck, making sure he’s flexed and listening, before heading to the warm-up ring. 

There are a few riders already there, most of which are probably due to go before him, but it’s not crowded by any means. John focuses on his own horse as he goes through his usual routine—transitions between all gaits, halts, rein backs, anything to make sure that Artie is in tune. The headstrong confidence that was an asset on the cross-country course was often a detriment in the dressage ring. 

Artie only snatches at the bit once, otherwise acting the picture-perfect dressage horse. It’s almost worrying, how calm he is, and John can only hope he hasn’t peaked before the actual test has even started. 

John pushes his worries aside when it’s time to make his way to the chute. Sherlock jogs up to catch him as he’s crossing the lawn, holding his top hat. 

“Rutledge got a 42.3. She’s the only one to go so far,” Sherlock says as John swings down from the saddle. “Mike told me to give you this.” 

“Thanks.” John unfastens the harness of his helmet and slips it off. “I’d forgotten.” 

He expects Sherlock to trade but instead the man just reaches up and slips the hat down on John’s head. For a moment, Sherlock’s hands settle on the brim, unmoving, and their faces are so close that John can see the shifting colors in Sherlock’s eyes. 

Sherlock glances down at his lips and John’s breath freezes in his chest.

Is he really about to be kissed standing right here in the middle of everything, right before he’s meant to go ride dressage? 

“You’d better get going,” Sherlock says. 

Apparently not.

John nods, pulling the hat more securely down and offering up a silent prayer that it won’t get swept away by the wind. He hands his helmet over to Sherlock before mounting again.

“Good luck,” Sherlock says. 

“Thanks.” John tries not to clench his jaw as he looks up toward the stadium ahead. The white-painted rails lining the chute are just visible in the distance. 

As he urges Artie forward, his mind wanders back to the look on Sherlock’s face. He allows himself a few seconds of something like regret and then pushes it all away. Whatever it was, he’s going to have to think about it later.

The lawn seems to stretch on forever in front of him until—finally—he reaches the outside of the stadium. There’s only a smattering of people in the stands this morning, all of them silent as they watch a rider’s test. John arranges his face into a smile as he stops next to the assistant steward. “John Watson and Army Born,” he says. 

She glances at her clipboard. “After this test, there’s one rider ahead of you.” 

“Thanks.” John relaxes his grip on Artie’s reins so they can both take in the sights. Rolex is always a clamoring place and there’s nowhere else quite like it. 

Phillip Dutton finishes off his test to applause and his score flashes up on the screen as he comes out of the arena. A solid 47.3. John resists the urge to clench his fingers around the reins. Artie is easily capable of low 40s but there is always a chance of something going awry. 

William Coleman passes by, looking determined as ever, and enters the ring. John takes a deep breath. In a few minutes, it’ll be his turn. He turns Artie in circles in the chute, keeping him warm and stretched. 

William’s test ends but John keeps his attention away from the scoreboard and on his horse. A solid test. That’s all he really needs. 

John urges Artie forward into the arena. He can hear the steady drone of the announcer and the cheers of the crowd but he pushes it all to the back of his mind. Artie’s ears flick around but other than that he doesn’t seem to notice the atmosphere around them. 

John takes his time moving into a trot and getting them both organized before asking for a canter. He sits deeper, until Artie offers him the perfect collection he’s looking for, and then moves to the open gap in the white rails of the arena. 

There are the judges, quiet and intent at the other end. Artie’s ears come back and he falls easily into the halt as soon as he’s asked. John raises his top hat to the judges, gathers up his reins, and they move forward into a collected trot. 

It’s far too early in the test for him to make any judgments, but John’s heart soars at the smoothness of his mount’s trot. He shifts his weight as they reach the end of the arena and Artie curves his body into a right turn. John asks for more as they straighten out and Artie stretches out his strides, moving into the perfect cadence as they cross the length of the arena in a diagonal. As soon as they reach the other side, John asks for him to come back and he does. 

A trio of flags clatter in the wind above them as they move around the short side but Artie doesn’t even seem to notice. John tightens his outside rein as they reach the letter “F” to ask for the shoulder-in. It’s not perfect but Artie does his best and with his performance so far that’s all John can really ask for.

There aren’t many lateral movements in this test anyway. Maybe they really do have a chance to take the lead in this thing. 

Artie’s body is soft through an eight-meter circle, his stride never wavering for a second. It’s the best preparation for a half-pass as soon as they make it back to the rail. Artie bobbles slightly but he completes the movement and can straighten out as soon as they reach the center line. 

Directly in front of the judges, they turn left. Artie is able to relax into the collected trot for a moment only for John to close his legs around his mount and push him forward. Artie stretches out with his front legs, soaring over the ground as they cut another diagonal across the center of the arena. As soon as they reach the other side, John releases the pressure with his legs, tightens his hands on the reins just a touch. His heart stutter-steps for a moment, afraid that Artie isn’t going to come back to him, but then he does. 

There’s a short moment of collected trot before he has to ask for another shoulder-in. This one’s better—Artie has always been softer to the right—but still not perfect. There’s an eight-meter circle on this side followed by a half-pass to balance out with the movements in the opposite direction. 

As they track right in front of the judges, John sits and asks for a walk. Artie slips into it easily, without getting lazy. They change direction in a shorter diagonal at an extended walk before shortening up again. John focuses on being as precise as possible within the confines of the arena as he turns at “V” along the rail to halt at “L” in the middle. 

Artie offers a balanced halt, his ears flicked back for further instruction. John pauses for a moment and then shifts his weight back. Artie collects himself and moves backward. 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

John releases the pressure, pauses for another moment to allow Artie to collect himself, and then moves his inside leg back to ask for a canter. Artie springs forward easily without even a step of walk to get his bearings. Then turn right at the rail and canter lightly along the short side of the arena. 

_Now the fun begins,_ John thinks, focusing for a second on keeping himself relaxed. He offers Artie more rein than normal, urging him forward into an extended canter as they cross the diagonal. Artie really stretches out, his strides as long as his shorter legs can make them. 

John brings him back again, giving Artie plenty of time to collect himself before they reach the other end of the arena. Perfectly in front of the marker, he moves his outside leg back and Artie’s legs slide effortlessly into a flying change. 

They cross the whole of the arena in a serpentine of three loops, John focused on keeping Artie balanced and straight through each of them. He’s careful to make sure the gelding doesn’t swing out on the counter-canter but his worries are unfounded. 

John asks for more collection as they change directions again and then really asks Artie to stretch out as they cover a twenty-meter circle.

_Almost finished,_ John reminds himself, although this is no time to relax now. 

They change rein across half the arena, Artie moving fluidly through a lead change in the middle. From there, he must weave his way across the arena through yet another serpentine, this one of five loops. 

One. Perfect.

Two. Not as close to the rail on the turn as he would have liked. 

Three. Excellent. 

Flying change across the center. 

Four. Flawless. 

Flying change. 

Five. They’ve nearly done it. 

John suppresses a smile as he turns down the middle. He halts in the perfect center and salutes the judges. Around him, the crowd leaps into applause. John releases the reins and Artie shakes his head, moving forward into a walk. 

John leans forward in the saddle to offer him a well-deserved pat. Whatever his score, the test is over. Even without knowing what the judges think, John can’t help but believe it was one of Artie’s best performances. He grins at the cameras around him as he circles back to leave through the opening that volunteers are already making in the rail. 

The audience breaks into wild applause behind him and John jerks around to see the board. 39.1. 

His and Artie’s personal best. 

There were many great riders left to go but he was in _first._

“Thank you,” John bursts out with a grin and cameras click around him as he lets go of the reins and pats Artie with both hands. The horse twists his head around as if to ask what all the fuss is about. 

“Congratulations!” Mike says, greeting him at the chute and taking Artie’s reins. “I’ll take care of our real champion. You go do your duty as a rider.” 

John turns to where fans and reporters alike are dotting the lines and finds that it’s easier than usual to put on a smile. Sherlock catches his eye from where he’s making his way down from the stands. He offers a nod and to John it means as much as the roar of the rest of the crowd. 

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” John promises and goes to greet everyone. The next half hour passes in a rush of autographs, questions, and congratulations. Finally, John excuses himself with a comment about having to go check on the other half of his team. 

ohn passes by the barns, glancing into Artie’s stall to make sure the horse has settled down all right, and then heads back to the camper. He’s more than ready to be done with the tails. 

He hums as he undresses, still riding the waves of adrenaline. He’s just pulling on his jeans when there’s a knock on the door. 

John glances down at his bare chest, reasons that it’s nothing Mike hasn’t seen before, and opens it.

Sherlock. 

John’s mind goes back to the moment before his test, the flash of Sherlock’s eyes, the crackling tension. Now that his test is over, he can really think about it. How much he wants that again, right _now._

“Come in,” John says, moving aside. 

Sherlock looks over him, face as impossible to read as always, and steps up. John lets the door snap closed behind them before he goes to pull on a polo. 

“It was a beautiful test,” Sherlock says and John feels like that’s the highest of praise. 

“Thank you.” John slides his jacket back into a garment bag to protect it for the ride home. “It’s my highest score and Artie’s.” 

Sherlock nods and his eyes dart toward the door. There isn’t much room between them in the cramped space but what little there is John steps forward to close. “Before the test, when you gave me my hat—” 

He doesn’t get a chance to finish. 

Sherlock’s hands fist his shirt, pulling them together. Sherlock comes in a little too hard, the kiss almost bruising at first, but then he relaxes into it. John reaches up, resting a hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck. His curly hair is soft, brushing against John’s skin. 

_What am I doing?_ John wonders in the moment before Sherlock’s lips part. 

Sherlock’s tongue reaches into his mouth with a strange hesitance. John meets him halfway, the back of his mind quietly contemplating whether it would be okay to point out that neither of them really need to be here until later in the afternoon. 

The camper door bangs open. 

John jerks back hard but Sherlock’s still holding onto his shirt. He manages to flail for a moment as he gets his balance, Mike watching them both with an amused expression. “I just wanted to let you know that you managed to best _Michael Jung._ ” 

“Not Sam?” John asks, his heart pounding in his chest. 

“No, his other mount. I’ll let you get back to…that.” Mike closes the door. John groans, leaning his forehead against the wall. He and Mary had certainly taken risks around the barn during their relationship but Mike had never caught _them_ in the act. 

Sherlock’s practically smirking at him when he finally looks back up. “Lunch?” the man asks.

John shakes his head, wondering what he’s possibly gotten himself into. “All right.” 

The rest of the morning and afternoon passes in a steady blur. Despite the efforts of many of the best horses and riders in the world, John’s score remains on top. Artie picks up on the excitement, pacing around his stall until John gives in and takes him for a brief hack. He keeps it soft and slow, not wanting to overdo anything. 

He may have used up all of his luck acing that test. He can’t risk ending the rest of his weekend early. 

Sherlock finds him once all the dressage is over. “I need to prepare for tomorrow,” he says. “I'll catch a cab back to the hotel.” 

John can recognize a need for space when he sees one. “Of course.” 

“You have to do the press conference anyway.” Sherlock grins quickly before he walks out of the barn. John’s face slips into a frown. The press conference. 

Shit. 

It isn’t long before John finds himself sitting behind a long table covered in green. People are gathered in front, sitting and rumbling with chatter. Laine Ashker sits in the middle chair, starry eyed with it all, with Michael Jung quietly beside her. 

The press conference starts and the questions quickly start to blur together. John tries to focus on his fellow competitors but the experience is so surreal. 

He’s at Rolex. Sitting in the press conference. As the leading rider. John chokes back a laugh at the whole situation. Words comes out of his mouth and his answers must be good because people grin and laugh in response. 

At long last, everything ends and the three of them are released. John pays Artie a quick visit, offering him a hug and a treat, before heading to his hotel. He’s tempted to knock on Sherlock’s door but by the time he reaches his own his body is sagging with exhaustion. He only has time for a single wish as he reaches across to the cold side of the bed before he's falling asleep. 


	5. Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I woke up at eight this morning to catch cross-country from Les Etoiles de Pau (four-star in France). I wanted to see fischerRocana but the stream didn't load in time. I did manage to catch Michael Jung and Halunke in their run around the course. It's the horse's first four-star and it was a sight to behold.

John grabs a couple extra hours of sleep while he still can. He takes a long shower and grabs breakfast from the hotel lobby, sneaking in and out as quickly as possible before returning to his room. While he eats, he takes a look at the leaderboard, refreshing a few times just to make sure it’s not a mistake that his name is sitting there on top, and then checks today’s ride times.

Sherlock is due to go in the afternoon, just after William and Michael. John is finishing off the last of his circular egg patty when his phone vibrates.

_Come at once if convenient._

John has only a moment to wonder how Sherlock managed to both acquire his number and input his own without his knowledge before a second message arrives.

_If inconvenient come anyway._

John snorts and swings his legs off the bed. He throws on a jacket and wanders down the hall. Knocks twice before he realizes that Sherlock is probably already at the barn. He waits a few moments anyway, just to be sure, and then goes out to his truck.

John bypasses Mike and Artie—what if this is an emergency?—and makes his way down to Detective’s stall. Sherlock is standing just outside, frowning heavily at a pair of stirrup leathers.

“Does one of these look longer than the other?” he asks as John comes to a stop in front of him.

John stares at them. They both look identical. “This is what you called me down here for?”

“No.” Molly calls from inside the stall, coming over to the door and crossing her arms like a guard. “I kicked him out of the stall.”

“Detective’s braids are uneven,” Sherlock tells her, hanging the leathers across his saddle. “We can’t go into the ring like that.”

“They’re uneven because you did half of them.” She glares at him and turns to go back to her work. “Let me take care of Detective, Sherlock. You take care of yourself.”

“Come on.” John wraps his hand around Sherlock’s wrist. “I’ll help you pick out a shirt for your test.”

“I already have a shirt for my test,” Sherlock insists but he allows himself to be led away to his own camper anyway.

“Do competitions always get to you like this?” John can’t help but ask as they step up inside.

Sherlock lets out a sharp sigh and flops down onto his tack trunk. “Not for a long time.”

John considers him, thinking about Sherlock’s quick rise to stardom, the increased pressure of four-stars that he himself had long since grown used to. The man had never faced a field of competitors quite like this before and especially not in another environment quite unlike their own.

“You distracted me yesterday,” John says, swinging the camper door shut. “Let me return the favor.”

“I don’t need a distraction,” Sherlock says. “I need to focus.”

“You need—” John comes to a stop directly in front of him, legs to either side of Sherlock’s knees “—to relax.”

Sherlock reaches up to tug on his belt loops, dragging John up onto the tack trunk to straddle his lap. “Whatever did you have in mind?”

John leans into a kiss, not about to waste another second. He waits for Sherlock’s tongue to reach into his mouth and then sucks hard, eliciting a quiet moan.

After a while, John’s knees start to ache from where they’re pressed against the trunk but he ignores them. The tips of Sherlock’s fingers are pushed underneath the waistband of his breeches now, just resting. John delves his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, messing it up even more. He’s never really quite thought about how tight breeches fit until now, his cock straining against the confines of the fabric.

Sherlock nips down on his bottom lip and John groans, hips bucking forward. The kiss ends abruptly, Sherlock pulling away with a sharp gasp. John hadn’t stepped in here with a plan for anything more than kissing, enough of a distraction until it was time for Sherlock to go school.

Now that seems like a major oversight.

John leans back enough to look Sherlock in the eyes. The burning look he receives is enough to send a shiver down John’s spine.

Sherlock tucks his fingers in John’s waistband and moves to tug it down. John freezes him with a hand, smirks at the questioning look he receives, and slides from the trunk to the ground. He kneels between Sherlock’s legs, the floor of the camper not much more comfortable, and tugs the man’s breeches down hard. Sherlock lets out a sigh of relief as his cock slips free.

It had been a while for John but his mouth watered as he took in Sherlock towering above him. He wanted to watch the man come apart, to remove the last lingering tension in his muscles. Sherlock’s fingers twined through his hair, gentle and undemanding.

“Some of us have horses to school,” Sherlock says, his normally smooth voice almost hoarse.

John looks up at him and makes a move to stand up. “Maybe I should let you get to that.”

“No.” Sherlock’s fingers tighten in his hair until it’s almost painful. John relaxes back onto his knees and Sherlock loosens his grip again.

John smiles as he leans forward and takes the head of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. The man lets out a hiss as John reaches out with his tongue and takes him deeper.

Sherlock tries to buck forward but the angle isn’t right. John wraps his hands around the points of his hips, holding him in place. He licks and sucks at Sherlock’s cock, taking him a bit deeper with each stroke until finally the whole of his length is in his throat.

John holds still for a moment, until his eyes start to water, before he pulls back. His pants are so tight around his own cock that his very thighs are starting to ache. John reaches down with one hand, dragging them down just enough to tug himself free. He moans around Sherlock’s cock from the brief contact of his hand on his own.

“John—” Sherlock hisses and he only has a moment to prepare before he’s coming down his throat. John’s hand strokes his cock as he swallows. In barely any time at all he's coming with a groan.

Sherlock’s fingers slide from his hair down to his cheeks, thumb playing at his bottom lip as John struggles to catch his breath.

They take their time cleaning up themselves and the camper. John waits for the awkwardness, the insistence that this was a one time thing, but it doesn’t come.

“I should get back to Detective,” Sherlock says.

John glances down at his watch and nods. “I should take Artie out before things get too busy.”

Sherlock steps across the floor between them and presses a brief kiss to John’s lips. “I’ll see you tonight, after my test.” Sherlock gives him the apprising look that he generally uses when he’s passing deductions on horses. “You think too much.”

Before John can reply, Sherlock is gone, leaving him shaking his head. Getting involved with a man like Sherlock—with anyone really—it’s insane. Once the competition ended, they would have to go their separate ways.

So lost in thought, John ends up back at the barn with little memory of actually leaving the camper. Artie watches with pricked ears as he walks up to his stall. From there it’s only a few minutes before he’s mounting up.

John moves as far away from the action as he can and settles Artie into an easy warm-up. His only goal is to make sure his horse stays fresh and doesn’t stiffen up with all the time spent in the barn. Artie prances underneath the cool wind that’s kicking up across the rolling hills of the park. Underneath the clear blue sky looking out over everything from his horse's back, John's worries seem to slip away.

John returns to the barn with plenty of time for lunch before the afternoon group heads to dressage. Mike and Molly are sitting outside Artie’s stall, sharing a pizza between the two of them.

“Is everything okay?” John asks, glancing at Mike but focusing on Molly before he leads Artie into his stall.

“Fine.” Molly polishes off the crust in her hand and reaches for another piece. “I told Sherlock to come eat but he’s taking Detective for a walk instead. Whatever you did seems to have helped.”

John can feel his cheeks burning and he turns away from the two of them to untack Artie. “How are the scores this morning?”

“Uh…” Molly hesitates but Mike has never been one to beat around the bush.

“Tim Price and Wesko scored 36.3. You’re in second,” he says.

“This afternoon’s going to be tough,” Molly adds. “Jung and Sam, plus Fox-Pitt and Moonie. And Sherlock, of course.”

Once he's done, John swipes a piece of pizza and joins them on the ground. The long stretches of waiting are always difficult but hanging out is a good way to make it bearable. They demolish the pizza between the three of them before Molly says her goodbyes and returns to her charge.

“How was Artie this morning?” Mike asks, stowing the pizza box away to get rid of later.

“Fresh.” John glances over his shoulder to where his gelding is watching the goings-on with pricked ears over his stall guard. “I think he’s waiting for me to show up decked out for cross-country.”

Mike laughs. “He’s just going to have to wait.”

At one-thirty, when the lunch break is over, John heads up to the stadium and slips into the stands to watch. He’s always enjoyed seeing the delicate partnership between horse and rider, the way the same horses that will thunder over the cross-country course tomorrow settle down and tune into their riders’ aids today.

William turns in a beautiful test with Moonie, knocking John down into third. He doesn’t have much time to think about it, though, before Michael is cantering into the ring with Sam. The two of them are breathtaking together, turning out a soft, smooth test that sends the crowd roaring. Their score reflects their perfection—36.3—tying them for the lead.

“Sherlock has a tough act to follow,” Mike says, sliding onto the bleaches next to John.

John nods and fixes his eyes on the arena entrance. A moment later, Sherlock and Detective are walking through. Sherlock looks classically beautiful in his tails and top hat, Detective shining in the evening sun. The two of them look like a veteran pair on the Grand Prix circuit, not rookies in their first four-star.

Sherlock takes his time getting Detective acquainted with the arena before cantering into the ring to begin his test. John holds his breath, eyes transfixed on the two of them. Sherlock is perfectly still on his mount’s back, not seeming to direct him at all, but still Detective hits every mark.

It’s only when they halt for the rein back and Detective tosses his head that the illusion is broken. Sherlock pauses, giving his horse a moment, before asking again. This time it’s perfect but the damage to their scores—on that movement, at least—has been done.

If Sherlock is rattled, it doesn’t show as he finishes off the last serpentine and comes down the center-line to salute. The crowd breaks into applause as he releases the reins and pats Detective. He’s more conservative than most, his face doesn’t alight into a grin, but even from here John knows there’s a small, private smile.

“Come on,” John says, clambering stiffly to his feet.

“There’s one more to go,” Mike reminds him but John doesn’t pay any attention. He’s already making his way out of the bleachers and down to the ground. He's just stepped off the bottom of the stairs when cheers break out again. John’s head shoots up, searching for a good angle to see the scoreboard.

48.9.

It wouldn’t be enough for a top ten standing but an excellent score for a first time. By the time John makes it down to the chute, Sherlock and Detective are standing off to the side, Molly crooning praises to the horse as she scratches his poll.

“Well done,” John says with a grin.

Sherlock nods his thanks, his mouth a tight line. “It could have been better but it’s a solid foundation to improve off of.”

“That’s the spirit.” John reaches over to pat Detective. “What was it that had him worked up?”

“The flags, I believe.” Sherlock swings down from the saddle and Molly takes the reins. “I suppose I should see if anyone would like to speak to me.”

John pats him on the shoulder. “It’s not so bad. I’ll be at the barn when you’re done.”

Once Sherlock returns, the two of them head down to the cross-country course for one last look. They don’t talk much, other than to debate approaches, too focused on counting strides and examining fences. In less than twenty-fours hours, they’ll be stepping out onto this grass with their mounts.

By the time they make their way down to the finish, twilight has set in. John can’t take his eyes off Sherlock, the man looking almost ethereal in the low light.

“What?” Sherlock says, catching John’s gaze.

John looks away hurriedly. “Nothing.” He tries not to jump when Sherlock reaches over and twines their fingers together.

“Hotel?”

John grins. “Thought you’d never ask.”

They say their goodbyes to Mike, Molly, Artie, and Detective before hitting the road. John doesn’t question it when Sherlock climbs into the passenger seat of his truck.

They manage to make it out of the park before the worst of the traffic gets going and across to the hotel in record time. Sherlock orders room service while John changes out of his riding gear. John waits for the food to arrive as Sherlock goes down to his own room to do the same. By the time they’re both settled again, a bowl of salad and two steaks with baked potatoes have arrived.

They talk easily throughout the meal. When John settles back against his pillows with a happy sigh, he feels like he’s never going to move again. Sherlock seems to have other ideas.

Before John can blink, Sherlock’s climbing onto the bed and slipping onto his lap. “I thought we might take our time,” Sherlock murmurs, leaning down until his lips are so close that John can feel his breath. “Since neither of us needs…distracting.”

John pushes himself up on his elbows, just enough to meet Sherlock’s lips. Neither of them are in a particular hurry, the kiss soft and slow. John drops back onto the bed as he opens his mouth but Sherlock follows easily without breaking the kiss.

The two of them smell like horse and hay and sweat but John doesn’t care. He wraps his hands around Sherlock’s body, feeling the steady flex of the muscles in his lower back. His fingers slip underneath Sherlock’s jeans until he finds bare skin.

Sherlock’s hips buck forward, brushing against John with a force that’s almost painful. John’s desire to take things slow cracks like a whip. He nudges Sherlock off him just enough that he can reach between them. His fingers run down the buttons of his shirt with surprising speed.

Sherlock sits up and shrugs out of the shirt, tossing it aside. John pushes himself up and pulls his own polo off with one movement. With some difficulty, their pants are the next to go. John tries to take in as much of Sherlock as he can, imprint this on his memory in case he never gets the chance again, but it’s difficult with Sherlock lining himself up and leaning in for another kiss.

Any chance of taking it slow goes out the window when Sherlock reaches between them and wraps a hand around both their cocks. John arches up into his touch, pulling out of the kiss with a groan. Sherlock doesn’t let up, stroking as steadily as he can while nipping his way down John’s throat.

“Sherlock,” John hisses and it’s only a few more strokes before he’s coming between them. Sherlock stills, biting down hard on John’s collarbone as he comes.

Neither of them move until the stickiness starts to get old and John feels squished under Sherlock’s mass. It takes a few minutes to clean themselves up and then John climbs into bed. It’s early but his eyelids already feel heavy. He sees Sherlock reach for his pants and glance at the door.

Panic, hard and absurd, bolts through John at the idea of him leaving. He tugs up the covers on the other side of the bed. “Stay,” he says, his voice surprisingly steady.

Sherlock drops his pants back to the floor and climbs beneath the covers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to mention, scores (besides John's and Sherlock's of course) are lifted from this year's Rolex.


	6. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross-country is the second phase of eventing and relatively self-explanatory. Horse and rider pairs must gallop over a course of solid fences, many of which resemble obstacles that could occur in a natural setting. Penalties are given for going over the optimum time (a touch over eleven minutes for this year's Rolex) and refusing fences.
> 
> Here's a [virtual map](http://rk3de.org/virtual-map/) of this year's course.

John wakes in the morning with a space heater plastered to his back. It’s only when the source of the heat groans and nuzzles his nose into the back of John’s neck that he realizes it’s a man.

Sherlock.

John squints at the clock. About an hour until the alarm goes off. He kicks the covers of his legs—not difficult considering Sherlock seems to have stolen most of them—and pushes his face back into the pillow. He’ll need every bit of rest he can get but his brain seems to disagree. His thoughts race over the jumps, occasionally foraying into vivid replays of his previous failure.

Sherlock mumbles something, the actual words smothered by his pillow.

“What?” John whispers, unsure if the man is actually awake.

Sherlock strokes a hand over his side. “You’re thinking again.”

“Today is cross-country,” John says. It’s his favorite phase and the thought would normally fill him with anticipation. This time, though, he just feels cold with worries.

“Do you intend to bail as soon as Artie’s feet hit water?” Sherlock asks, kissing the back of John’s neck now.

John squirms, trying to flip himself over so he can say good morning properly but Sherlock’s arms hold him tightly in place. “Of course not.”

“Then you have nothing to be afraid of.” Sherlock lets him roll over and leans down into a kiss. John’s just entertaining thoughts that he might get used to this when his alarm starts to chime. They pull apart with a groan and John withdraws his hand from beneath the covers where he’d been moving towards Sherlock’s cock.

“Shower?” John asks with a wink.

Sherlock drags him out of bed and toward the bathroom in answer. Unfortunately, the pounding water is a sobering reminder that the two of them are expected to be with their mounts in short order.

“Tonight, we’ll do this again,” John promises, pulling Sherlock in for a quick kiss. “Properly.”

For now, they wash up quickly. When John comes out of the bathroom, he makes a beeline for the window. His hands are hesitant as he pulls the curtains aside. He knows there have been weather concerns over the past few days—even the possibility of tornadoes—but for now everything looks okay. The ground is damp but not soaked. The sky is still too dark to tell if clouds are threatening.

John’s phone buzzes at the same time as Sherlock’s—matching texts from Mike and Molly. They’re dressed and out the door in short order.

At the barn, John and Sherlock split up to check on their own mounts. “I was just about to take him for a walk,” Mike says. “Unless you want to?”

John takes the lead rope out of his groom’s hands. “I’ve got him.”

Artie seems to know exactly what day it is, prancing at the end of his lead rope and pricking his ears toward the slice of cross-country course running to their side.

“Soon,” John promises, his heart picking up with excitement of his own.

He takes his time making it a nice long walk. Slowly the sun peeks over the horizon, chasing away the darkness and revealing an overhanging haze of clouds. They don’t look promising.

John thanks his lucky stars that he’ll be one of the first out on the course. He won’t have the benefit of hearing how it rides from his fellow competitors but at least he might have a chance at getting done before the rain rolls in.

Artie puts his head down, snatching up a mouthful of grass. John chuckles as he pulls his gelding’s head back up. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s see if Mike has breakfast for you.”

The rest of the early morning passes in an easy rush, bringing no rain but no break in the clouds either. It seems like no time at all before John is heading to change into his gear.

His breeches and boots stay the same but he puts on a deep green polo shirt, covering it with his safety vest. His medical information goes in the band around his upper arm, his cross-country watch on the opposite wrist. He slips a dark green cover on his helmet and tucks it under his arm.

He considers his gloves for a moment, decides against them, and grabs a crop from where it’s tucked in a corner. He rarely uses it but he’ll carry it just in case.

That should be everything. John pauses for a moment, mentally running over a list and checking it off. There’s nothing left but his mount.

The grounds are bustling now, the host of volunteers and officials getting everything set up before they settle into their posts, spectators lining the ropes, riders readying their mounts. Under everything is the buzz of tension from the weather.

Artie is already fully tacked up, nostrils flared as he takes in the activity on the lawns. John keeps things slow, getting his horse warmed up without risking tiring him out before they even get on course.

John’s game face is on by the time he’s ready to go. The officials recognize him on his approach to the start box. It’s not raining yet but John can feel drops hitting his bare arms.

A man begins to count down. “Five…”

John keeps Artie restrained in a trot, moving into the box.

“Four…”

He tightens a rein, turning in tight circles.

“Three…”

Artie feels like a coiled spring, ears already pricked towards the first fence.

“Two…”

_I can do this._

“One…”

He would do this.

“Go.”

John releases his tight hold on the reins, urging Artie forward onto the course. The first fence is the Flower Box, large and inviting. Artie makes the distance perfectly and clears it without a thought.

There’s a short gallop before the second fence and Artie settles down into an easy stride. It comes up quickly—the Stepped Table—but Artie takes it easily.

The ground is still perfectly sturdy, not at all churned up by the two horses to go before him, so John directs Artie down the middle of the course. The grass flies by in a steady clip.

John sits up, driving with his seat as they come to the Open Oxer. Artie flies over it with room to spare.

From there, the course charges uphill to the first combination—Market Moguls. The first obstacle is wide but not unusual.

Artie’s strides are off as they head towards B. John releases the reins, letting him chip one in and get them over. The C element—a skinny made to look like a stump with brush in behind—he takes more carefully, steadying Artie’s strides and making sure to bring him right in the middle of the flags.

The spectators cheer as he clears the third fence and kicks on.

It’s a long gallop through the rolling countryside to the next fence. It’s the Double Brush, the hedges to either side shaped to look like horse heads. Artie takes it without a step of hesitation, followed quickly by the Trakehner, a log stretched above a ditch.

John forces himself to stay calm as Artie gallops around a smooth turn to the first water obstacle—the Frog Pond. What’s normally a small strip of water is swollen up onto its banks. Even so, it should be an easy confidence builder.

Artie pricks his ears as he leaps over the first fence and lands in the water. John keeps his eyes up, looking at the second obstacle on the opposite bank. Artie canters through the water like an old pro, rising up onto the bank and clearing the fake wooden table.

John reaches down to pat his horse on the neck before glancing at his watch. They’re making excellent time.

The next combination is a tricky one. He vaguely remembers the official name—Park Question—but can’t help but continue to think of it as “the coffin.” There are two routes and John lines up Artie for the more difficult but the most direct. The line they’ll take is a straight one but puts all three obstacles at an angle.

Artie gamely clears the first hedge and hesitates as the drop slopes down to a ditch. John digs his heels into the horse’s sides, urging him through a single stride before he hops over the ditch. There’s just another stride uphill before Artie’s throwing himself over the second hedge.

“Good boy!” John calls as they land safely on the other side.

They have a bit of a breather before the tenth fence, a tall table named the Tobacco Stripping Bench. Artie barely seems to notice the massive barrels to either side of him as he clears it.

The next one—the Ditch Brush—is much the same. John can’t stop the grin from rising to his face. Artie feels amazing, his strides regulated but powerful like he can just go on forever. He rushes to hold on to that feeling as the Head of the Lake comes into view.

Before that, are the Hillside Cabins. Artie hops over it and then the Lake is directly in front of them.

“Here we go,” John murmurs as he directs his mount towards the log that would drop into the water.

Artie flicks his ears back, listening, but his stride doesn’t change. That, more than anything, brings John out of the past and into the present. Where Zoey would have picked up on his hesitation and made it her own, Artie seems to say “I’ve got this.”

John squares his shoulders and there’s no time for anything but the brief feeling of flight as Artie’s hooves leave the ground and the two of them splash into the water.

Artie’s head comes up, keeping the water from flying into his face and looking for the next fence. John points him toward the skinny chevron rising out of the lake. Artie finds purchase on the ground below and they splash over it.

Only a few strides later they’re rising out onto solid ground again. John holds his breath as they leap over a second skinny chevron and then lets out a call, patting Artie one-handed on both sides of his neck.

There's still a lot of course to go but right now he feels like they can tackle anything.

Fence fifteen, the Picnic Table, is large and inviting after so many tough questions. Artie skims over it and gallops on.

John glances down at his watch. They’d lost some time taking the Head of the Lake carefully. He pushes against Artie’s neck now, asking for more. There isn’t any room for time penalties. Not today.

Spectators cheer as he gallops by, the sound a distant chime in the wake of the wind in his ears and the pounding of Artie’s hooves. The lane flares out again, a massive fence rearing up in front of them.

Mounds. It's a tricky one, known for startling even confident horses. The A element is a ring of wood and hedge set on wooden table. John feels Artie tense up at the sight of it and pushes him on. The horse’s strides steady out in time to send them flying through the opening in the middle of it all.

The B obstacle is just on the other side, a log with hedge on top floating in the air on supports. Artie takes it without a second glance.

The horse receives a pat for his efforts. From there, it's a nice long galloping lane, broken by the Cedar Oxer.

In quick order comes the Hollow. Artie takes the first fence, a simple log, with ease and John collects him as they stride downhill with a sharp turn to a skinny hedge. The ground slopes down and then up again.

John clenches his jaw, choosing his line carefully to the final obstacle. Artie hits the corner dead-center and they soar perfectly between the flags.

“Yeah!” he shouts as Artie gallops on. Distant laughter echoes along the lane behind him.

Next up are the Horse Park Barns. John remembers the different ways he could play this and glances at his watch. There’s time for him to take a little care.

The Barns are two identical obstacles, meant to be jumped diagonally in a broken line. John arcs Artie, moving in a shallow circle rather than a straight line. The gelding covers both gamely.

It’s only a short gallop to Fence 20, the Fallen Tree. The fence, true to its name, is stretched over a ditch. Artie eyes the oddly large carved acorn to their left, his shoulder bowing out slightly, but John only has to tap with his heels to send the horse flying over.

Up next is a double, the Opposing Corners. All John has to do is put them right down the middle of both and Artie doesn’t so much as tap a flag.

John keeps his eyes up as they come around a turn to the Footbridge. As they soar over it, he resists the urge to glance down at the trickle of water he knows is below.

A tall rise pops out of the course. Normandy Bank. Artie senses his rider’s hesitation—is the ground still sturdy?—and John snarls, tapping the horse with the crop.

Artie responds, leaping straight up onto the bank only to gather himself again to clear the fence on top. From there it’s a few strides on a turn to a skinny wooden block.

“Almost there,” John says, cheering on himself and his mount.

There’s a straight gallop to the Foxes’ Den, starting with a wooden oxer. Artie lands lightly, his ears swiveling as he looks for the next fence. John sits back, pulling hard on the left rein to make the turn between two hedges.

On the other side is another wooden corner topped with hedge. Artie bows to the right, thrown off by the blind corner, not quite hitting it square. They send the flag swinging.

It wasn’t pretty but they’ve made it.

Artie tugs on the reins as they gallop on but John keeps his hold. There’s only a few fences left to go but their time looks good. He just can’t risk it.

Artie skims over the Stick Pile, a wooden oxer covered over with dirt and flowers.

There’s a short gallop in relative silence and then suddenly the lane is lined with people. It’s the final water obstacle, the Water Park.

John lines up to the left side of the hedge and they drop down into the pond. Water splashes against John’s legs as they charge toward a fence decorated to look like a goose.

Artie’s strides are off, hindered by the water. His front hooves slam into the ground. John’s heart stops for a moment, waiting for the refusal.

Then Artie gathers himself and launches over it.

_Oh shit._

John feels himself flying out of the saddle and he scrambles to grab mane. The reins he lets slide from his fingers to keep from hurting his horse’s mouth.

His heart pounds in his ears as he waits for the inevitable splash.

It doesn’t come. His feet stay in the stirrups, Artie’s neck keeps him halfway in the saddle.

Artie slows to a trot, letting John get reorganized in the saddle. Once he has his seat again, he allows himself only a second to take a deep breath before his focus goes back to the course.

“Let’s do this,” John says, kicking him back up into a canter and heading for the opposite bank. The incline is sharp, topped with a hedge. Artie soars over it with much less antics.

John clicks to his mount, urging him faster as they gallop away. They’d lost some time but he can feel that Artie isn’t laboring.

“Only three combinations to go,” he calls.

The first—the Wattle and Daub Cottage—comes up quickly. Artie takes it without missing a beat.

The next one is a pair of wood fences topped with grass—the Sod Top Cabins. Like the barns, they’re set on a broken line. This time John points Artie in a straight line, jumping them both sideways rather than taking the extra seconds to hit them straight-on.

One more.

The final fence, the Produce Stand, races toward them. It’s a wooden box spelling 2015 in apples. Artie clears it easily and John’s heart soars. He pumps his arms, giving Artie all the rein he needs. The horse stretches out until he’s flying down the rest of the lane.

John can’t stop grinning as he passes the finish.

He allows himself a few seconds to enjoy it as Artie trots through the chute before he has to turn his mind back to business.

Now that the course is over it’s time for cooling down. John slows his mount to a walk and leaps from the saddle without waiting for him to stop. Mike hovers out of the way, stepping forward to put up the stirrups as soon as John is off.

A pair of vets converge on them, taking Artie’s vitals. John hangs on to the reins, holding his mount still. Mike shoves a bottle of water into his hands before going to remove the saddle.

“Great ride,” one of the vets says as the two of them finish up. “This guy still looks strong.”

“Thanks.” John smiles at them and hands over the reins to Mike so that he can trade out the bridle for a halter. Free of the bit, Artie shakes his head and then shoves it into the water bucket in front of him.

The next ten minutes race by in a steady rotation of sponging on ice water, scraping it off, and walking in circles. Artie looks good, like he’s just coming off a hack rather than an arduous cross-country run.

“Keep an eye on his right shoulder,” John says, spraying himself with freezing water as he scrapes it from Artie’s back. “We whacked one of the flags on a corner pretty well.”

“Anything else?” Mike leads the horse forward into another circle.

John shakes his head. “Nothing besides the usual.”

The vets come back, check Artie’s vitals once more, and approve them to return to the barn. “Why don’t you relax and do some interviews?” Mike asks. “I’m just going to give him a bath.”

John stares off towards the barns and sighs. “All right. I’ll be there soon.”

Mike tosses him a power bar. “Don’t forget to cool yourself down too.”

John rips open the package and takes an exaggerated bite. Mike waves in response and heads off to the barn. John would like nothing more to go with him, to make absolutely sure that Artie is all right, but instead he turns himself toward the various writers and fans dotting the grass.

He’s asked about the course—difficult but a well-designed challenge; the footing—still solid, he was lucky; and Artie—he’d done everything that he’d asked for and seemed to be recovering well.

By the time John makes it back to the barn, his horse is pulling hay out of a net while standing in four buckets of ice. Mike is keeping a close eye on him from the stall, holding a bag of ice against the gelding’s shoulder.

“How does it look?” John asks, ducking underneath the stall guard to see for himself.

“Just a precaution,” Mike says, handing him the bag of ice. He removes Artie’s legs one-at-a-time from the buckets so that he can have a break. “What was your score, anyway?”

“Double clear.” John pats Artie’s neck. “We made it with fifteen seconds to spare.”

The rest of the morning drags on. He takes turns with Mike icing Artie’s legs and shoulder with periodic breaks of short hand walks.

Only when noon rolls around does John leave his post to grab lunch for the two of them. He keeps an eye out for a glimpse of Sherlock but the man never appears.

Once they’re done eating, John takes Artie for a long walk and graze while Mike cleans up the ice water and wet straw. His mount seems a little stiff but none the worse for wear.

Rain settles over the park, adding another element of difficulty to the course. John knows well the way the preferred ground will be churned up by hooves. Many riders weekends end early, withdrawing on course or eliminated by falls. He’s relieved that each of these stories is accompanied by reassurance that no one is hurt.

John returns Artie to his stall just in time to catch Molly as she comes by. “Sherlock just went out to warm up,” she says. “I need to get to the start box but I wanted to see how your ride went.”

“I told her about your almost fall and whacked flag,” Mike pitches in.

John ignores him. “We went double clear. Artie took it like an old pro.”

“That’s because you are an old pro,” Molly croons, scratching the top of the horse’s neck. “At least you weren’t Francis Whittington.”

“Why, what happened?”

Molly shrugs, her forehead creased. “He took out the corner fence at the Hollow. Looks like his horse took off too quickly and tried to treat it like a bank. He did end up finishing the course.”

John winces sympathetically and glances at his watch. “If you’re going to the course, I’ll come.”

“All right.” Molly waves goodbye to Mike and they start the walk up to the start of the course. A woman takes off down the course just as they arrive.

“Who was that?” John asks, wishing he had a copy of the ride times on him.

“Nicola Wilson,” Molly answers, leading him to a spot along the rope with a good view of the start box and first fence. “We have a few to go before Sherlock.”

Horse and rider pairs bolt by them, one at a time, on a tight schedule of three minutes apart. John and Molly cheer each one on their way. It isn’t long until Michael Jung is galloping down the track and they’re looking down the lane for Sherlock.

He looks determined as he circles in the box, dressed in a gray long-sleeve shirt, white breeches, and a black vest. His helmet cover is dark blue. Silver spurs glint on his heels but he’s not carrying a crop. Detective tosses his head, hating as many horses do the custom of having to wait.

Finally, the official counts down and the two of them stride out onto the course.

“Go, Sherlock!” John shouts as they gallop past. Molly is quiet beside him, her eyes narrowed as she focuses on her charge.

Sherlock keeps to the right, staying out of the churned up ground in the middle of the Flower Box. Detective leaps over it easily, his ears pricked, and it isn’t long before they're galloped out of sight.

“Come on,” John says.

Fence 29 and the finish line aren’t far away, but the two of them hurry anyway. It only takes a couple minutes for them to find a place along the ropes and then there’s nothing to do but wait.

John listens to the announcer, mentally following Sherlock’s progress around the course.

At long last, Sherlock and Detective gallop down the lane to the final fence. Sherlock’s breeches are splattered with mud, as are Detective’s legs and boots. The horse is lathered with sweat but he still looks strong.

Detective throws himself over the Produce Stand and the two of them kick on for home. John turns to congratulate Molly but she’s already disappeared to look after her horse.

John smiles and heads back to the barn. He’ll have plenty of time to see Sherlock later. He peeks in on Artie, the horse lipping at hay with his eyes half-closed.

Final scores for the day arrive before Sherlock does. John is in third. Third.

Tim Price and Wesko had secured the lead with a double clear round. Michael Jung and Sam slipped to second with just one second over the time. John remembers the way the man had slowed down at the finish, celebrating just a moment too early. He’d earned third place with Wiliam Fox-Pitt and Moonie taking several time penalties.

John basks in that thought for a few moments before skimming the rest of the leaderboard for Sherlock. He’d brought in a double clear—very impressive for a rookie considering the conditions—and moved from twentieth to eighth.

John glances up just in time to see the man in question leading Detective towards the stall. Molly jogs beside them, doing her best to keep up while not spilling ice water all over herself. John steps up to take one of the buckets and she gives him a grateful smile.

“You’re in eighth,” John says, following them both towards the wash racks. “Great job.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock hands him the lead rope and moves to help Molly rinse his horse down with more ice water. “It was all Storm. He really got me out of some tough spots.”

Molly grins at his use of the horse’s nickname but doesn’t comment on it. Sherlock looks half-dead on his feet already.

It’s late by the time the two of them are ready to go back to the hotel. John wouldn’t leave—Artie needs one more hand walk before settling in for the night—but Mike practically orders him to go. Second inspection will come first thing in the morning and then, if all goes well, show jumping.

John showers quickly and alone, emerging to find Sherlock lying face-down on the bed. He’s wearing only briefs, his dirty clothes in a pile beside the bed. “Shower is all yours,” John says, dragging back the covers.

Sherlock mumbles something and moves his arms like he’s going to get up. He doesn’t. John smiles, climbing up onto the bed and straddling the man’s legs. He digs his fingers into Sherlock’s shoulders, slowly working out the tension. Sherlock turns his head to keep from smothering himself, letting out soft groans when John finds a particularly stubborn knot.

“I want to fuck you,” John says, the words spilling from his lips before he can think twice about them. He wishes that he could take them back. He hasn’t even known Sherlock a full week, though it feels like decades.

Sherlock’s eyes open. “I do not think that would be wise.”

John blushes, trying not to think about Sherlock bouncing around in a saddle tomorrow. “I know. Just—”

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock says abruptly. “Tomorrow we’ll have all the time in the world.”

Shivers, burning hot, race down John’s spine. He pushes himself off Sherlock and crawls under the covers. “Tomorrow,” he whispers.

Sherlock leans over, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, and then slides out of bed to shower. John closes his eyes, images of Sherlock underneath him racing through his mind. He doubts he’ll be able to sleep now but he’s out before Sherlock joins him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Francis's accident, referenced by Molly, actually happened. [Video here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ox3y1pUZYco) His mount, Easy Target, tried to bank off the corner and his hind legs slammed between the table and the ground line log. Luckily, the fence smashed. Easy Target was not injured but was withdrawn before the second jog. 
> 
> The difference between Price and Jung was 0.4 penalties. Jung did indeed put his fist in the air as he was coming to the line with Sam, causing the horse to slow down just enough to go one second over.


	7. Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be the last chapter but ended up being too long. So one more to come! 
> 
> Show jumping is the third and final phase. Horse and rider must complete a course of 12-20 fences set within the confines of an arena. Unlike cross-country, the fences are composed of poles that are easily knocked down. Four penalties are received for each fence with a rail knocked down. It's also timed, with one penalty for each second over the time allowed. Verticals are one set of standards with poles in between. Oxers are two sets of standards, poles jumped together to give width.

John rolls himself out of bed as soon as the alarm goes off. He wants to reach over, wake Sherlock up with a nice long kiss, but there isn’t time for that now. The second jog-up is in just a few hours. John leaves Sherlock to sleep for a few minutes more and goes to take a shower. By the time he comes out, his fellow rider is gone.

John sighs, mutters, “Good morning to you too.”

The door opens and Sherlock steps back inside, tossing John’s key back onto the dresser where he’d left it. He’s fully showered and dressed, a garment bag hanging over his arm. His eyes are oddly cautious as he looks across the room.

John realizes he’s frozen in front of his suitcase. He digs around for a clean pair of breeches and a black polo before pulling them on. The previous night comes rushing back—his comment, Sherlock’s promise—and his cheeks start to burn. Sherlock steps up behind him, hands wrapping around John’s waist. There will be plenty of time to talk tonight, when the competition is over and there’s room to think about the future.

If there is a future. John knows that he doesn’t want to just watch Sherlock walk away but maybe he’s only looking for a one-competition stand. Sherlock’s arms squeeze around him, just once, and then he moves away to let John finish getting ready.

They’re at the barn within the hour. John drops off his own garment bag at the camper before heading directly to Artie’s stall. His muscles vibrate with tension, no matter how many times he reminds himself that Mike would have called him if anything was wrong.

Artie isn’t there.

John hangs out outside the stall for a minute before giving in and sending Mike a text. The reply comes a few seconds later. _Other side of the barns._

John holds himself to a walk as he makes his way around, weaving between riders and grooms and horses, until he reaches the other side. He lets out a sigh of relief when he spots Mike standing away from the action, Artie grazing calmly at the end of his lead rope.

“How is he this morning?” John asks, taking his horse in. He looks good—his legs clean, no sign of inflammation in his shoulder.

“Little stiff but no more than usual,” Mike tugs him away from the grass and trots him in a circle. Artie moves easily, tossing his head in disagreement over being pulled away from his snack. “Shoulder looks good. Legs look good. All four shoes still on, always good.”

“Thanks, Mike.” John pats Artie’s shoulder as he puts his head back down to graze.

Mike shoves the lead rope into his hands. “Make sure he walks around a bit. He’s supposed to be loosening up, not getting fat.”

“I know what to do.” John chuckles as Mike walks away and turns his attention back to his horse. “Come on. It’s time to walk.”

It seems like no time at all before eight o’clock arrives and John has to go change. He puts on the same brown suit as the first inspection, with a light blue button-up this time.

Artie looks absolutely spotless when John returns to the barn to retrieve him. Quarantine requires all overseas competitors to go first, so John and Sherlock arrive with their mounts at eight-thirty on the dot.

The inspection doesn’t seem to be off to the best start when the second horse to present is sent to the holding box. John feels a distinct sense of dread set in when Bay My Hero is too shortly after.

He puts his game face on as he’s called to present. Artie moves easily without a fuss as they walk into the ring, halt for inspection by the panel, and then complete the loop at a jog.

“ _Army Born to continue_.”

John bites down on his tongue to keep back the laugh that bubbles in his throat. Only show jumping is between him and his first completed Rolex.

Mike winks at him as he takes Artie’s lead rope. “Get yourself together and go watch Sherlock.”

John nods, forcing himself to take a deep breath. Once Mike and Artie are gone, he returns to the fence to watch. There are a few more horses—all accepted—and then Sherlock.

Detective looks perfect, not as fresh as he had for the first inspection but not worn out either. His eyes are bright, his ears pricked, and his strides are perfectly even as he trots after Sherlock.

John holds his breath as Sherlock and Detective exit the back of the lane. “ _Consulting Detective to continue_.”

John grins, settling down to watch the rest of the jogs. Once the overseas horses finish, there’s a long wait before those in the holding box can be presented again. Sherlock appears while John’s debating whether it would be better for him to just go back to the barn.

“How is Detective?” John asks as Sherlock leans on the fence next to him.

“Never been better,” Sherlock replies easily.

At long last, Annie Clover and Bay My Hero are accepted and the U.S. horses are allowed to present.

By the time inspections are over, there are forty-three horses moving on to the final phase. John still can’t quite believe that he’s going to be one of them.

He glances down at his watch. The show jumping course would be open to walk in a few minutes. “I’m going to walk the course.”

“Okay.” Sherlock follows along next to him as they make their way across the lawn and up to the arena.

A frown plays across John’s lips as he surveys the course. Some spectators are already lining the outside. This afternoon the stadium will be filled to bursting, the air crackling with tension. Artie’s always taken activity well in stride but he has no way of knowing if that will extend to this.

The course itself is tricky, rife with stride options, roll-backs, and fences that could cause even steady cross-country mounts to look twice.

Sherlock mutters something that John doesn’t catch and wanders away. John shrugs; every rider has their own way of figuring out how to tackle a new course. He rubs his hands together and heads to the start flag.

The first fence is an inviting dark-colored oxer. He takes it in for a moment before stepping around to the landing side. John’s lips move as he counts strides to the next fence. It’s another oxer, the standards to either side painted to look like white houses.

There’s a nice steady line to fence three: a vertical with brown and white poles and standards like brown barn doors. “Man o’ War” is painted on one of the rails. John pauses at the landing, taking in the turn to the next fence.

A carved wooden fish sits out in the arena, a good marker for the turn. He could go out and around, set up for the combination, or he could cut to the inside and save several seconds.

John takes his time, walking both options and tucking the information away for later.

The next fence is the first in a combination, both of them curved to either side to look like fence on a racetrack. Both verticals with two strides between them.

The course sweeps into a wide right turn to a liverpool. The actual water underneath sparkles in the morning sun along with the matching pools on either side.

It’s a straight six strides to the purple-and-white FEI vertical before yet another roll-back. It’s a sharp left turn either around the Rolex clock or inside of it. John counts both but his mind leans toward the inside turn.

He allows himself a moment of hesitation as he turns to the next combination. It’s the Rolex triple, each fence identical green and yellow. The first is a ramped oxer with one stride to the middle vertical and two strides to an oxer.

There’s a slight right turn to fence eight, a vertical with standards resembling Churchill Downs’ twin spires. John frowns at them and makes a mental note to bring Artie around to take a look before they start the course.

There’s a tight roll-back to the right around another clock to a triple bar, painted in various shades of brown and decorated to look like abstract mountains. He’ll give Artie a look at this one too.

There’s a bit of distance to fence ten: a vertical with decorations like a stone wall and poles painted with “Kentucky Badminton Burghley.” Eventing's Grand Slam.

Fence eleven, an oxer painted with Whirlaway's name, has standards like red and white barns. John can already feel the anticipation as he turns to the second-to-last fence. It’s a vertical made to look like a gate off a tight roll-back. From there it’s several steady strides to the final fence: a vertical reminiscent of a wall if they came with boards that floated on air instead of extending to the ground.

John goes back to the start line and walks the whole thing one more time, just trying to take it in as Artie would. Looking for problem spots where he’ll have to drive forward or hold back. Once that’s done, he goes looking for Sherlock.

The man is pacing back and forth between fences 8 and 9, lips moving in a silent count.

“It’s a rollback, Sherlock,” John says lightly.

Sherlock ignores him, a deep crease between his brows. He counts strides for a turn that’s way wider than it needs to be, even for a horse of Detective’s size. “I have to check every option,” Sherlock finally says, stepping out of the way as Phillip Dutton goes by.

“All right.” John smiles fondly at him but Sherlock doesn’t notice. He’s already walking the path if he jumped fence 8 to the left side and flattened out the turn.

John leaves him to his work and heads in the direction of the barn. By the time he makes it back, order of go has been finalized. The remaining riders will be in reverse order from the standings, putting John as one of the last. The idea of having to wait already itches at his skin.

“How does the course look?” Mike asks where he’s sitting on the tack trunk.

“It’s not a cakewalk.” John grabs his saddle and slips through the stall guard. “I’m taking Artie for a hack. Stretch him out a little.”

“Okay.” Mike gets slowly to his feet. “I’m going to the food trucks. What do you want?”

“I’m fine.” Artie lifts his head away from his hay as John sets the saddle on his back.

“I’ll surprise you.” Mike disappears before he can protest. John sighs and finishes tacking up. The early tension relaxes out of his muscles as he swings into the saddle.

John takes his time, keeping the horse at a walk as they make their way over the lawn. Artie feels good, alert but not spooky and his strides perfectly smooth.

Once they’re well away from the worst of the activity, John moves him up into a trot. He alternates between walk and trot for a while and then turns for home. Already a dull buzz emanates from the stadium and echoes across the grounds.

“I’ve got him,” Mike says when he dismounts in front of the stall. “You eat.”

John sighs and hands over the reins. A styrofoam box waits for him on the trunk, containing a chicken wrap and fries. He eats as much as he can, watching Mike tend to his horse.

John glances at his watch. Half an hour until show jumping is due to start. He glances down the aisle to Sherlock’s stall but he can tell it’s been abandoned.

“I’m going to head up,” John says and walks away. The steady noise of the crowd gets louder as he goes, until it’s a dull roar.

The first group of riders is already in the warm-up ring. Those due to go later are either handling the stress in solitude or gathered around the outside, waiting to see how the course handles.

John joins them, exchanging waves and hellos as he goes.

The chatter around the ring is good. The course is tricky but no one expects anything less; the weather is perfect; the ground is excellent. As the first riders take the course, tips trickle back to those waiting.

Be careful of the distance to the second fence.

The time allowed isn’t forgiving towards outside routes.

Ride forward to the triple.

John smiles as he watches the rookies exit the ring, absolutely glowing as they pat their horses. They may be finishing with triple-digit penalties but at least it’s not a letter.

Sherlock appears at John’s shoulder just in time to see Laine Ashker emerge from the ring with the first clear round, albeit with a single second over time. If anyone’s surprised to see him, they don’t let on.

“No one’s made it under time yet,” John tells him.

Sherlock shrugs but his voice is oddly kind as he says, “I don’t need to know how other riders are doing.”

“Then why are you here?” an American girl that John doesn’t know asks over her shoulder.

Sherlock ignores her, eyes fixed on John. He doesn’t have to say. The two of them hang outside the arena with the other waiting riders.

After a few more rounds, Sherlock gets bored, makes an offhanded comment about a rookie’s jumping style that doesn’t go over well with her mother, and ends up heading back to the barn. John considers following him, for solidarity if nothing else, but Sherlock turns around and waves for him to stay. Even though Sherlock doesn't like to let others influence his riding of the course, John likes the ability to gather feedback.

A cheer goes up when Lillian Heard nets the first double clear. John shakes out his arms. That’s one barrier broken.

When the break rolls around, she’s still the only clear round on the board. “Best of luck,” John says to those few riders still hanging around the warm-up ring. He pushes off the fence and heads back in the direction of the barn.

He glances into Artie’s stall but it’s empty. Mike must have already taken him out to start walking. John glances over the lawn without spotting his horse and then heads for the camper. If he’s going to stand around and wait, he might as well do it fully dressed.

He slips on his stock tie first, pinning it down so it can’t come flying loose in the middle of his ride. His hunt coat is dark blue, gloves white to match the tie, and breeches a dusky brown. John grabs his helmet—traditional black velvet—and a crop, tucking both under his arm. By the time he steps back into the barn area, Mike is passing by with Artie.

“How’s he doing?” John asks, walking circles around his mount to check for himself.

“He’s ready.” Mike smirks as he pats Artie’s neck. “Tried to make a break for the cross-country. Think he wanted another go.”

John laughs, running his hands down the horse’s legs to check for any heat. There’s none.

“Relax, John.” Mike’s voice is softer now, no longer laughing. “How’s the course riding?”

“Tricky. Just one clear.” John frowns as he makes himself take a couple steps back. “Nothing Artie can’t handle.”

“That’s the spirit.” Mike glances down the shedrow to where Detective is being groomed. “Are you going to have time to watch Sherlock’s round?”

John shakes his head. “He’s sitting eighth.” He would have to be in the warm-up ring by then.

Before John knows it, he’s swinging into the saddle. Artie shifts beneath him but waits for his nudge to move forward. It isn’t quite time to go to the warm-up ring yet so John finds a quiet patch of lawn to move in circles. Artie listens easily, always a bit of a toss-up with horses at the height of their fitness after the overwhelming power of cross-country.

John enters the warm-up ring just in time to see Sherlock trot out. He tips his helmet at the man, murmurs, “Good luck.”

Sherlock tips his helmet in reply. John shakes his head as he takes to the ring. It’s time to focus. He’s still cantering in circles along the fence when Sherlock emerges back onto the lane.

John slows to a trot, ears straining for the announcer’s voice. Four jump faults, a few seconds within the time. A very respectable performance for a first four-star. He watches Sherlock pat Detective, lacking the large grin of many riders but still clearly brimming with satisfaction. Only when Sherlock looks over and catches his eye does John turn away.

Artie demolishes the first practice fence, his eyes too focused on the crowd gathered around the arena to pay attention to the poles. John takes his time getting his mount’s focus back while someone’s coach puts the poles back up into place. This time Artie soars over it easily.

An air of increased tension hangs over the stadium and grounds. The final riders, the best of the best, are set to go. John takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. The standings don’t matter. Just Artie. Just giving him the best chance at a clear round.

He takes a few more fences, all clear, and makes up his mind to stop there. Artie is ready. He’s ready.

William Fox-Pitt leaves the warm-up area and trots into the arena. John closes out the sounds from the stadium as he trots along the rail. A few more minutes. Just a few.

A silence sets over the grounds, leaving John alone with the steady rhythm of hooves and his heart. All at once, the crowd erupts into cheers. William had gone clear.

John slows Artie to a walk and points him toward the exit. It’s time. He takes his time getting Artie settled into the environment, trotting along the outside and circling around the twin spires and the triple bar.

Artie barely looks twice at them. John crosses the center of the arena and nods to the ground jury. A buzzer goes off.

Artie springs into a canter and John circles him once, driving with his legs as they split the start flags. It’s a choppy two strides before the fence but they make it over.

John tightens up on the reins, taking an extra stride to the next oxer to get Artie settled into a smooth canter. This one is much better.

Seven strides to the vertical. Nice and smooth. Perfect arc around the fence.

John takes the outside turn to the first combination, just like everyone has before. Double verticals designed to look like quarter poles straight from Keeneland.

The two strides in between are long ones and John drives with his seat. Artie answers, stretching out his legs without sacrificing his jumps.

The crowd around him claps but John doesn’t hear it. He’s lost in the sound of his horse’s hooves and the steady snort of his breath. He tries not to think about what a clear round here could mean.

It’s a wide right turn to the liverpool. Artie’s head drops, distracted by the sparkle of real water in the tray. John digs in his heels and sends him forward over the poles.

The purple and white FEI vertical is an easy six strides away. Horse and rider clear it without a second thought, John already focused on the big combination ahead.

The triple has taken its toll on several riders. Determination rises like fire in John’s stomach. Sometimes to be the best you had to take risks.

He twists in the saddle, looking toward the first oxer, pulling hard on the inside rein. Artie turns to the inside of the clock without losing stride and his ears prick at the fence. John pushes hard.

The first oxer isn’t any trouble. One stride. John worries they might be a touch short but Artie stretches out, his hind legs flicking into the air to clear it.

The distance is bad. John knows it in his gut the moment they hit the ground.

“Whoa,” he shouts. He closes his hands on the reins. Artie’s head comes up but he listens. There's just enough room to chip a second stride and then Artie digs into the ground, pushing off hard.

John hears Artie’s hind hooves knock the rail and his heart stops for a moment.

He hears Artie’s hooves.

He doesn’t hear the rail.

There’s a good distance to the next fence. John spares himself a glance beneath his elbow. The fence is still up.

John takes the outside eight strides, knowing he's losing time but wanting to make sure Artie is steady again. The Twin Spires vertical isn’t a problem.

Artie rolls back hard to the next fence and arcs over the triple bar.

Four more fences.

It’s a long eleven strides to the Grand Slam vertical and a steady four to the red and white oxer. Artie takes them both easily.

From there it’s another roll back to the left. Artie’s head comes up, tugging at the bit. He knows they’re going toward the in gate.

“Easy,” John murmurs.

So close.

Artie tucks himself up over the vertical. John forces his game face to stay in place as he drives with his seat.

Eight strides.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

Jump.

If Artie is thrown by the fact that the fence is a wall that appears to float in midair, he doesn’t show it.

John’s pushing his heels into Artie’s sides the moment they hit the ground, urging him faster through the finish flags.

He thinks it’s enough. He hopes it is.

John glances to the clock. Ninety seconds flat. It's enough. He stands in the stirrups, fist in the air as Artie canters on around the arena. He celebrates for a moment while the crowd roars around him and then settles back into the saddle.

Artie slows to a trot and then a walk as they exit the arena. He moves to the right, getting out of Michael Jung’s way. Mike and Sherlock are there waiting for him. Mike’s entire face is split in a grin as he throws his arms around Artie’s neck.

Sherlock is smiling, his eyes sparkling with something that might be pride. “Great ride.”

“What are the standings?” John asks, desperate to know now that his competition day is over.

Sherlock shrugs. Mike pitches in, “You’re in at least third. If Sam or Wesko drop a rail…”

John shakes his head but anticipation rises in his heart. Both horses and riders were champions but even champions could make mistakes or have off days.

“Do you want to go into the stands?” Mike asks, taking Artie’s reins. “I’ll stay here with him.”

“No.” John swings from the saddle and wraps his arm over Artie’s neck. “I’ll wait here.”

They walk away from the main hustle and bustle of the stadium, walking Artie in circles. No matter what happened, he would be expected back for the presentation of awards. Molly walks over, leading Detective. The horse is wearing a green blanket emblazoned with Rolex.

“Oh, how did you do?” John turns to Sherlock. “I missed your round.”

Sherlock’s smile is tight but there. “One rail but we still made it up to sixth.”

“That’s fantastic.” John grins, leaning away from Artie to pat Detective on the neck.

“He’s the only rookie in the top ten,” Molly adds proudly. “Storm here tried to two-step the second oxer in the triple. Didn’t quite make it.”

John whirls around, looking back towards the arena as a sympathetic cry goes up from the crowd. A few moments later it happens again. The four humans stand still, waiting with bated breath. Cheers rise up once more followed quickly by the announcer’s voice.

Two rails. Eight faults. Jung and Sam would fall to fourth.

“You’re in second!” Molly cheers. John watches Tim Price trot by with Wesko and resists the urge to shove his face into Artie’s mane. His first Rolex completion and he’s in second.

Could his luck hold stronger?

The stadium is silent but back here there are no restrictions. Chatter surrounds them but John can’t think of anything to say. His heart pounds in his ears. Artie and Detective walk along beside each other easily, just cooling out. John is glad to have something to do with his hands.

“Oh!” the crowd groans.

One of the crew waves to John. “Price dropped a rail!”

John forgets how to think for a moment. A rail. Price had dropped a rail. Four faults. Enough to send him down the leaderboard and John to the very top.

“We won!” John shouts, grinning as he throws his arm’s around his horse. Artie stops, his head lifted as his ears prick at the crowd around him. All he understands is the praise showered on him from John and Mike and Molly and even Sherlock patting the horse’s back.

Cheers rise up from the arena, Price finishing his round and the final standings being announced. “ _John Watson and Army Born have won at Rolex._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "They're finishing on a number, not a letter" is something that Gina Miles said during the commentary that resonated with me. It refers to the fact that eliminated riders are marked with an "E" and withdrawn with a "W." 
> 
> The "oxer two-step" move that Detective tries to pull was inspired by [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7Jn2dPll04). It's when a horse drops its hind legs too early as if they were jumping a vertical instead. With a lot of luck, a great horse can pull them back up and clear both poles. 
> 
> Sam's two poles and Wesko's one is how Jung and Rocana won Rolex in reality.


	8. Sunday Night

The words don’t even seem real. That can’t be his name or his horse’s. It has to be someone else. Has to be a mistake. John’s vaguely aware of the cameras on them but he doesn’t even glance their way. Sherlock pulls him into a hug that only lasts a second and John wishes was a kiss. Molly claps him on the shoulder and then Mike is hugging him too. Artie’s ears prick at the cameras, the horse dancing at the end of his reins.

In the midst of it all, Sherlock says, “You need to get back in there.”

Back? Back in where?

John shakes his head, trying to throw off the continued spread of disbelief. The victory lap. The presentation of awards. Mike launches into action, kneeling at Artie’s feet to remove his boots followed by the complicated straps of the breastplate. They won’t need it now.

The cameraman stays close by, camera fixed on Artie as the horse stands patiently. John can’t stop a smile from slipping onto his face as he stares at his gelding, periodically patting the horse on the neck. Sherlock catches his eye from behind the camera, points at Detective. The two of them will be expected to make their own appearance in the ring. John nods quickly.

A dull roar settles over the Horse Park as people begin to flood out in an attempt to beat the traffic. The cameras back away again and John pushes his face into his horse’s neck.

“Budge up,” Mike calls to him, holding the dark green sheet emblazoned with the Rolex logo. John backs away, letting Mike strap it on over the saddle. Two massive multi-colored ribbons pin to each side of the neck.

“Ready?” Mike asks, fixing his gaze on John.

“As I’ll ever be,” John replies and accepts a leg up into the saddle. His stirrups are covered so he stretches his legs into place, hoping he isn't about to slip off in front of thousands of people. The arena is scattered with representatives, ready to award prizes to the winners.

It hits John like a hoof to the chest that he’s not just one of the winners. He’s _the_ winner.

Mike winks over his shoulder at him as he walks along next to Artie’s neck. John grins and shakes hands, everything turning into a blur of voices and faces. The walk back to the arena is a slow one and when they reach the stadium, Mike steps to the side and John urges Artie up into a canter.

Applause soars into the air, surrounding the two of them from all sides. John shifts the reins to one hand, waving to the crowd with the other. Artie’s steps lift up, feeding off the excitement of the crowd like he knows it’s all for him.

They complete one round and Artie slows to a trot as they come around to greet the mass of people standing towards the middle. Mike appears again to hold Artie and allow John to dismount. Donna Brothers is there, waiting to give the first interview, with the rest of the presentation party.

“You and Army Born are no stranger to four-star competition,” Donna starts and John fights to clear his head, “but this was your first Rolex since an elimination in 2012 and his first trip across the pond. What does this win mean to you?”

John reaches up to run his hand through his hair and finds helmet instead. “I still can’t quite believe it happened, to be honest.” He squints up at the crowd. “Rolex is a great competition and I’m honored to be standing here. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t apprehensive to come back but Artie really gave me his all these last three days.”

“Well, it was a pleasure to have you.” There’s a smattering of applause from the crowd. “What’s next for the two of you?”

John glances over his shoulder at where Artie is prancing in circles, refusing to stand still. “Burghley, perhaps. If there are any selectors out there, I’d love to go to Rio.”

Donna laughs, the sound echoing through the crowd around them. “I’m sure Rio would love to have you.”

The interview ends and the presentation of awards begins. A heavy glass trophy in the shape of a horse head presented by the Governor of Kentucky. The event’s characteristic Rolex watch from the CEO and president of the company in question.

From there, it’s a stream of never-ending photos and chats while the rest of the winning horses and riders are announced behind them. John catches Sherlock and Detective’s name but he resists the urge to turn around, the First Lady of Kentucky complimenting him on his excellent cross-country ride.

At long last, he and Artie are released from the circus for a well-deserved rest. Mike takes the saddle as soon as they get back to the barn and heads to the trailer. They’ll be leaving sometime tomorrow and it’ll be easier if everything they don’t need is already put away.

“Thank you,” John murmurs to his horse as he leads him into the stall. “Obviously I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“And he couldn’t have done it without you.” It takes John a moment to realize that the voice is coming from inside the stall. Sherlock steps out of the shadows of the back corner. Artie, released from John’s hold, goes to investigate his hay net.

“What are you doing in here?” John asks.

Instead of answering, Sherlock wraps his hands around his waist and pulls him into a kiss. It’s soft and slow, practically worshipful. John lets himself get lost in it. It’s nice to have a few seconds to luxuriate after such a tense day.

“John—” Mike’s voice drops off suddenly as he clears his throat.

John drops his forehead onto Sherlock’s shoulder. He should have known it wouldn’t last. “Yes?”

“ _Horse & Hound_ are hoping for an exclusive interview before the press conference,” Mike continues, the words rushed. “I can tell them you’re busy…”

“No. Just give me a minute.” John presses one more kiss to Sherlock’s lips, barely more than a peck. Quieter, words only meant for Sherlock, he says, “I’ll see you tonight, okay? We’ll take all the time we need.”

Sherlock’s gaze is pure heat as he says, “I will hold you to that.”

Sherlock waits for John to step out of the stall before he follows.

“They’re over there,” Mike says, pointing across the lawn to a pair of reporters with notepads clutched in their fists. John waves to them and holds up one finger.

“I’d best make sure Molly doesn’t need any help,” Sherlock says, glancing at the bustle of activity down the whole of the row. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Okay,” John says, swallowing hard. He forces himself not to watch Sherlock walk away as he starts towards the reporters.

The next few hours are a whirlwind of preparations to leave, interrupted by the occasional interview or fellow competitor stopping by to offer congratulations.

Artie enjoys all the attention the most, hanging his head over the stall guard with pricked ears. Mike finally gives in and moves his water bucket and hay net into easy reach while the horse soaks up the praise.

Sherlock leaves just before the press conference is due to start. John’s skin itches to watch him go, longing to climb into the car with him.

He’s overjoyed to win and has every intention of doing his best to enjoy the celebration and press, but he can’t stop thinking about Sherlock’s voice as he said, “ _Tomorrow we’ll have all the time in the world_.”

It’s almost overwhelming, the Rolex way of celebrating. He remembers it being much quieter across the pond, with the exception of Pau where celebrations turned into a bit of a circus.

The final press conference appears much the same as the one on Thursday, although that seems centuries away now. There’s the podium, the long table, the back-drop emblazoned with sponsors, people gathered in chairs to watch.

Sitting there for the second time, though, John knows that the feel is completely different. Excitement and relief hangs over this room, vibrating in the air.

John feels out of place sitting between Phillip Dutton—the highest placed American—and Michael Jung. Like any second he’ll glance down to find that he’s forgotten his trousers and this is all a dream. Instead, his name is announced without a loss of clothing and John keeps his smile on as people clap and flashes go off.

There’s a brief introduction, a round of champagne, and then questions. John does his best to pay attention when his fellow competitors are speaking, but his eyes keep slipping to the clock on the back wall.

“ _John, what were you thinking as you were waiting for the last two rounds?_ ”

John chuckles, fingers playing with the tablecloth in front of him. “It’s hard to describe. Artie and I had a very good round. I can’t say I had any hopes of working my way up the leaderboard.”

“ _How did you feel when you heard you’d won?_ ”

“Ecstatic.” A grin slips over John’s face. “I came here just hoping for a completion. Artie is a great horse and to win against such tough competition is an honor.”

“ _Do you have any plans for your winnings_?”

“Carrots wrapped in gold leaf for Artie.” John shakes his head, thoughts still whirling with it all, as laughter ripples through the crowd. “I haven’t thought about it. Perhaps it’s time for me to expand.”

“ _John, with the Grand Slam on the line, are you going to Badminton?_ ”

“No.” John shifts in his seat. “Artie is my only horse and it would be far too much to ask for him to compete again this weekend. It’s not in the cards this year.”

“ _Are you coming back to Rolex Kentucky next year?_ ”

John smiles. “I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. Once things have settled back down, I’ll take a look at the calendar. It’s hard to pass up such a great event but the travel can be a lot and I have to consider Rio.”

At last the press conference comes to an end. John heads directly to the barn. Mike’s sitting outside of Artie’s stall in the twilight, the ground looking strangely sparse now that most of their stuff has been loaded back up.

“How’d it go?” he asks, watching John scratch underneath Artie’s forelock.

“Well.” John leans his forehead against the corner of the stall, soaking in the smell of horse and hay. “They asked what I plan to do with my winnings.”

Mike makes a scoffing sound. “And?”

“I said I was thinking about expanding. I think it’s time Artie had some stablemates again.”

“About time.” Mike claps him on the shoulder, grinning. “I don’t suppose this means we’ll get another groom, does it?”

“Keep dreaming.” John laughs and pats Artie on the neck one last time as the horse gets bored and moves away. “Do you need me for anything?”

Mike shakes his head. “I’m not going to stay much longer myself. I just wanted to catch you after the press conference.”

“Good night, Mike.”

“Enjoy your celebration,” Mike replies with a grin and wink that are entirely too suggestive for John’s comfort.

The first thing John notices when he steps into his hotel room is Sherlock’s clothes scattered across the floor.

The second thing is Sherlock himself, spread across the covers. Naked. Back arched up as he thrusts two fingers into himself.

John’s hard almost instantly as he freezes just inside the door. “I thought we had all night,” he says, his voice coming out strangely hoarse.

There’s a wicked gleam in Sherlock’s eyes as he turns to look at him. His fingers don’t slow down. “I couldn’t wait.”

John’s hands shake as he hurries to remove his jacket, tie, and shirt. It’s made even more difficult by the fact that he can’t take his eyes off Sherlock. Especially when the man crooks his fingers deep inside himself and lets out a moan.

“John,” he groans, his eyes slipping open again. “I need you.”

“Fuck.” John almost rips off a couple of buttons in his haste to get his shirt off. He’s thankful that he changed from breeches to khakis before press. It only takes him a few seconds to get the zipper undone and drop both his trousers and briefs to the floor.

Sherlock has three fingers inside himself now, grinding down on them with his lips parted. John grabs the lube from where it’s abandoned and slicks up his fingers.

“Let me,” he says, pushing at Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock groans and thrusts in hard. “You don’t have to. I’m ready.”

“Oh no.” John braces himself against his clean hand and leans down to whisper in Sherlock’s ear. “You promised me all night. And I’m going to take my time.”

Sherlock whimpers and his hand drops onto the bed next to them. John captures Sherlock's lips in a kiss, hand moving between them to play at his rim with the tips of his fingers. Sherlock feels open and slick with lube but John isn’t quite ready yet.

Sherlock pulls hard out of the kiss, head thumping back against the pillows. “Are you going to do it or not?”

“Demanding.” John smirks against the side of his neck but pushes in with one finger anyway. It slides in easily and John adds a second, twisting them until Sherlock arches up hard.

“Fuck me,” Sherlock groans, his voice cracking on the last word. John’s resolve breaks. Slow is just going to have to wait for another time.

Another time. That’s a thought.

John lunges off the bed, hunting down his wallet underneath his dressage coat. He struggles to rip open the packet and roll the condom on.

“Hurry,” Sherlock urges as John clambers back up onto the bed and slicks himself up.

John pauses for a moment, looking down at Sherlock. His hair clings to his face, damp with sweat. His cheeks are flushed and his pupils blown. It hits him what they’re about to do. “Are you sure about this?” John asks.

“Oh for heaven’s sake.” Sherlock grabs him by the shoulders and, a moment later, John finds himself on his back. Sherlock straddles his hips. “Of course I’m sure.”

Then he’s lining himself up on John’s cock and sinking down. John throws back his head with a groan, trying not to think about how long it’s been, trying to make sure this isn’t going to be over before they’ve even really started.

John groans again as Sherlock bottoms out and stills. He forces his eyes open and almost wishes he hadn’t. Sherlock’s back is arched and his hips twitching like he’s forcing himself not to grind down. His eyes are closed, bottom lip clasped between his teeth.

John reaches out, resting a hand on Sherlock’s hip. “You don’t have to hide from me,” he says, his voice cracking. Sherlock’s eyes flash open and he moans as he finally lets his hips move in shallow thrusts. John slides his feet along the bed. When he’s in place for the right leverage, he thrusts up hard.

Sherlock breaks. His knees dig into the bed and he pushes himself up, setting a furious pace. John can do nothing but lay there and let him, fists clenched around the bedspread.

“Oh God, John,” Sherlock groans. It’s enough to send John hurtling over the edge, coming so hard his vision turns white. Sherlock slams down once more and stills. His hand reaches for his cock and strokes once before he’s coming all over John’s stomach.

“Oh fuck,” John groans at the image.

Sherlock takes a few moments to catch his breath before he slides off, falling to his side on the bed. John gets up to toss the condom and clean himself up. When he returns, Sherlock drapes himself over him, ignoring the way they stick together with sweat.

“Baker’s Dozen,” Sherlock says suddenly, breaking the silence that’s been hanging over them.

John startles, wondering if he’d fallen asleep and missed something. “What?”

“It’s a farm in North Carolina,” Sherlock explains. “My brother purchased it, just in case I were to need a place to stable horses in America.”

“That’s where you’ll take Detective,” John says quietly, fingertips carding through Sherlock’s hair.

“There’s plenty of room for two horses.” Sherlock’s voice is hesitant but it only takes a moment for John to see what he’s suggesting.

“You want me to come with you.” His heart races in his chest.

“I understand if you would prefer to go our separate ways…” Sherlock starts to sit up but John tugs him back down. He’d been so caught up in concerns that Sherlock wouldn’t want to continue their relationship away from this weekend, he hadn’t considered the possibility that he had the same worries about him.

“I’ll talk to Mike in the morning,” John says firmly, a smile on his face. “An old friend agreed to let Artie stay at her facility but I’m sure no one would mind if I changed plans.”

Sherlock pushes himself up but he doesn’t go far. “I’m sure Detective would appreciate having a stablemate.”

“Of course.” John trails his fingers down Sherlock’s back. “Are you sure this isn’t about company for you?”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock leans over to place a kiss on John’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who commented, gave kudos, or just read this story. I've had a lot of fun writing it. :) It's going to be a while before I try to tackle something like this again but I won't rule out the possibility of sequels, especially with next summer. 
> 
> The question about winnings was asked of Michael Jung. His response a joking: "The flight home is really expensive. We are nearly down to zero." 
> 
> "Rio" refers to Rio de Janeiro, the site of next year's Summer Olympics.


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